


The Amical Affairs

by chantefable



Series: The Alla Prima Collection [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action & Romance, Character Study, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Humor, M/M, Multi, Partners to Lovers, Romance, Slice of Life, Spies & Secret Agents, Suspense, Team Dynamics, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a standalone story in a separate, unrelated continuity.<br/>1. Globetrotting: Teller, Kuryakin and Solo explore each other one city at a time.<br/>2. Cordial: Teller voices her opinions, Kuryakin eliminates deterrents to his happiness, and Solo isn't sure how he's deserved his predicaments.<br/>3. Nocturnal: Kuryakin does what he likes by doing what Gaby likes, and Solo is being difficult.<br/>4. Jovial: Waverly is competent, dashing, and takes wagers about the accessibility of his dubious virtue in stride.<br/>5. Radical: Waverly considers the extent of his favour towards Kuryakin in Finland, and towards Solo in the Netherlands.<br/>6. Serendipitous: Waverly always puts British interests first.<br/>7. Cardinal: Waverly observes, deduces, and deals with unpleasantness.<br/>8. Incidental: Waverly makes sure that happy accidents happen.<br/>9. Ardent: Kuryakin becomes involved with Teller and Solo in a way that suits his inclinations.<br/>10. Intimate: Kuryakin learns, Teller manages, and Solo adjusts.<br/>11. Crucial: Kuryakin feels, and then he doesn't.<br/>12. Congruous: Solo is wearing Teller's glasses in the evening and Kuryakin's shirt in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Globetrotting Affairs (Slice-of-life, OT3)

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of miscellaneous standalone stories, with variations of the genre and UNCLE team dynamic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo explore each other one step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Let us not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless when facing them." - Rabindranath Tagore

**I Gaby**

In Anatolia, Solo decides he needs a cup of tea just when Gaby decides she needs to kiss Illya. And therefore, Solo ruins everything yet again. He seems to have a natural talent for butting in and ruining things, doesn’t he.

In Osaka, Solo decides that _Gaby_ needs to have tea, and so he walks into the room on silent socked feet, uncomfortably surprising her just as she puts her chin on Illya’s shoulder to read from his file. Illya startles like an overgrown hare that he is and pulls away, and Solo just stands there, looking smug and imperious.

In Kuala Lumpur, Solo seems to abandon his tea fetish in favor of heavy drinking and opium, which makes him conspicuously absent a lot of the time. Gaby tastes Illya’s lips frequently but drives herself mad with worry about the integrity of the team and the success of the mission. The foremost thing on her mind is the risk to the entire UNCLE operation that Solo is so cavalierly posing right now, and Gaby cannot enjoy the Russian’s kisses at all. They taste stale. There’s much bitterness and withdrawal all around and later, on the plane, the three of them sulk in separate corners. Trust Solo to ruin everything again.

In Bangkok, Solo is back to his obnoxious self, popping into Gaby’s hotel room at odd hours of both day and night to check one device or another, to stash his gun, or to deactivate what look like Soviet-made trackers. He makes her jittery. He’s annoying. When yet another knock-knock-knock wakes her up after midnight, Gaby loudly stomps across the room and barks out, ‘What is it, Napoleon?’ even as she yanks open the door. Illya gives her a very confused and hurt stare and leaves without any kissing whatsoever.

In Lahore, Solo is preening like a peacock, completely enamored with the cut of the embroidered chemise and trousers he insists on wearing at all times. He rims his eyes with kohl lightly, declaring in a deadpan manner that it highlights the eyes and protects from the glare of the sun. Somehow, just when they are finally wrapping up and packing their suitcases after the mission, Illya’s thick arm brushing against Gaby’s smaller one as they dawdle in front of the overflowing wardrobe, Solo manages to slip in between them and emerge, triumphant, with more luxurious colorful chemises than he may ever possibly need in his life. He grins like the cat that got the cream and offers Gaby and Illya to teach them how to draw a perfect kohl line. How does he manage to figure out the exact moment when he’ll be most unwelcome. Does he get off on meddling in other people’s affairs just because he can.

In Agra, Gaby opens her thickly kohl-rimmed eyes widely, her mouth in a perfect ‘o’ of surprise as Napoleon presents her with an immaculately prepared mission plan and fully assembled gear. When everything indeed goes without a hitch for once, he gives her a smug smile and bumps his shoulder against Illya’s, who blushes and leans over, pressing his unexpectedly smooth lips to Gaby’s. There’s a faint trace of kohl along Illya’s waterline and his mouth tastes like tea. Holding onto Illya’s neck, Gaby sticks out her other hand and wiggles her fingers in the air until she feels Napoleon’s two hands closing over them, soft and somehow impossibly shameless.

 

**II Illya**

In Buenos Aires, Solo goes dancing. 

He knows how to tango – he’s not very good but he’ll do, and more importantly, he has a contact: a Nazi he’d known back in 1946 when Solo was groping Bronzino and Delacroix with uncouth hands. So, a dealer in the sale of stolen property who’s obviously successfully migrated to Argentina. Illya doesn’t ask, just watches Solo put on a suit that fits him all too well in all the obscene places and go out. Dancing to the music, dancing around the mark. It’s a touch-and-go a couple times but Illya trusts Solo to do the job and stays back. 

He teaches Gaby to assemble and disassemble a gun instead – she picks it up fast, her hands as confident as they are with an engine – and kneads the tense muscles of her back when insomnia takes its toll on her. She melts under his hands.

In Santiago, Solo eats like a glutton and drags Gaby to a ballet, then gets visibly upset when she doesn’t like it. Illya watches them bicker tersely as he sprawls on the couch, not bothering to towel himself off and getting water stains on the upholstery instead: he just picks up a pen and begins sketching a crude plan of the warehouse in Gaby’s notebook. He can feel their eyes on him, attempting to burn holes in Illya’s bare chest, probably, but he pays it as much mind as he does to the way his thin trousers cling to the back of his thighs after the shower, which is to say, not at all.

In Bogotá, they lose themselves in the rhythm of the job and the thicket of the industrial area, and Illya has to bodily drag Solo away from a fight because they run into some of his former colleagues, the CIA, and Solo insists that if UNCLE engages then it must be through him because if Illya does something – the Russian way – they’ll come after him. 

Touching. And true. 

So they don’t engage at all. Illya has to press his hand over Solo’s mouth and press Solo into the concrete wall with his whole body, but they don’t engage and Gaby appears happy afterwards, relieved. Illya picks her up and makes her sit in his lap while she’s on the phone with Waverly. When Solo passes by their bed to get to his own, Illya grasps his wrist and squeezes it reassuringly.

In Cartagena, Illya gives Gaby a silver ring. It does not have a tracker; he does it just because. When they fuck, Illya feels like he’s careening down a very narrow tunnel even though the bed is large, and the suite is huge, and the vivid blue sky is endless, looking at them through the open window. When she finally crawls out from under his lax body, all sweat-slick, blissed out and beautiful, Illya leaves Gaby to nap and forces himself to put some clothes and go downstairs, where Solo is enjoying what the restaurant of their upscale hotel has on offer.

Illya wishes he’d thought to buy Solo a key chain when he was picking the ring for Gaby. He doesn’t know what he’s hungry for, so he asks the waiter to send a bit of everything upstairs, to Gaby’s room. Then Illya puts his arm around Solo’s shoulders and Solo looks at him with readiness and without confusion, message received. And so Illya simply drags Solo away from his unfinished plate and takes him upstairs, where Gaby’s bed is still warm and smells faintly of sex.

In Quito, Illya stands on the balcony, breathing in the mild breeze and suppressing a tremble by sheer force of will as his hands grip the railing. It seems like they have reached an altitude where the air between them is rarefied and Illya’s defenses are worn thin. There’s hardly any distance left between him and Gaby, him and Napoleon, when they exchange information and coordinate their actions. There’s hardly any distance Illya can maintain when they exchange air among them, he and Gaby and Napoleon simultaneously reaching for each other’s mouths as they roll between the sheets. Illya inhales deeply and feels as if eternal spring were running through his veins.

 

**III Napoleon**

In Oslo, Napoleon has to hiss ‘five more minutes’ through his teeth as he disarms the bomb stashed in the basement of the lab. He doesn’t think about Gaby’s furious silence that the cracking communicator carries or about Illya on the other side of the thick metal door, interrogating a junior assistant who appears to be an informant for parties unknown. The possibilities are increasingly more hideous, and Napoleon cannot care what Gaby thinks right this minute; he wouldn’t have cared if Illya is tearing out the Norwegian’s fingernails right now or getting manually acquainted with his kidneys either way. He has to focus on the task because disarming a bomb is not quite the same as getting a Diebold vault to open, even though it requires just as much energy and craft. 

His mind goes blank like a snowy desert and his hands don’t shake at all while he works, but afterwards, when the three of them are loading the cumbersome device in a nondescript truck, Napoleon wonders about the queer rush in his ears and something that feels like inappropriately intense relief. Is this what people who have someone to come home to feel?

In Tallinn, Napoleon shoves Gaby’s pillow over his head and ignores Illya’s ungentle prodding. It is not time to go. They do not have to hurry. The distance is tiny, inconsequential, infinitesimal: the Estonian capital is not large by any means, and their local operation is confined to the Old Town, which is almost the same as having an international spy fight in a sandbox. No, Napoleon doesn’t have to get up, to get dressed and make himself presentable; he looked good enough for Illya just a couple hours ago, didn’t he? He does not have to hurry at all. The greatest distance, the greatest challenge he has to withstand, is time.

In Prague, Gaby poses as an official from East Germany and Napoleon poses as her Italian husband, and it is one of the most brilliant covers they have played. On the third day, with the two of them trapped at the long table covered with a heavy, starched tablecloth and laden with savory dishes, Gaby is engaged in a deep conversation with the allegedly sticky-fingered director of the shoes factory while Napoleon performs for the party crowd to the best of his ability, cordial and effusive. His smile is shining brighter than the chandelier above, but his heart is not in it. His heart and his mind are preoccupied with something else, and it would have been unprofessional if it had any effect on the job. It doesn’t.

Napoleon thinks that no one is bored of him yet, and not going to get bored any time soon, apparently. When? Time drifts on by, the scenery changes – Lahore, Santiago, Quito – but the impeccable mechanism of Napoleon’s Patek Philippe does not lie. It measures the long minutes on board, in bed; in lust, in trust; in love. 

Late in the evening, when Illya comes back after meeting with his KGB colleagues and sets his father’s watch by the hands of Napoleon’s before scooping up the dozing Gaby from the dusty armchair, Napoleon wonders if time is at his side, after all.

In Gibraltar, they are at an impasse, the British against the Spanish; both Illya and Napoleon have been scoffing from the very start – the mission briefing that sounded suspiciously like something from under the pen of Ian Fleming. Symbolic given the setting, and they do have to deal with Waverly’s friends from the Naval Intelligence Division. Napoleon even makes a joke about the golden hues in Gaby’s eyes, and is threatened with having to sleep on the floor. They are posing as brother and sister this time, and they are sharing a room. This, too, rather begs an indecent joke about British inbreeding, and Napoleon tells not one but two just to hear the crisp, clear sound of Illya’s chuckle in his ear. Bless their current equipment; it is finally more up to Illya’s damn high standards.

Too many things are unsatisfactory about their variation of Operation Goldeneye, but Napoleon can find no fault in his current company. None at all. He’d take five more missions like that, any day.

In Istanbul, memories cling to them with the stubbornness of sweat-damp cotton, and old impressions are promptly overlaid with new ones. Their first time together here, Napoleon played Gul Bara like a madman, milked his local contacts for what they were worth, and, night after night, morbidly imagined the kind of intimacy between Illya and Gaby that they had been nowhere close to forging back then. This time, they lay him down between them like mortar between stones, and the nights are fragrant and sweet like Turkish delight. Napoleon knows what he wants, more and more, as he gives and takes, haphazardly pressing kisses against what feels like endless miles of hot skin.

Therefore, in Neuchâtel, Napoleon treats himself to the sight of Illya – tall, broad, larger than life – squeezed into a small funicular. Napoleon doesn’t remember what he says, exactly, but there is an answering smile on Illya’s lips, rich like the finest Swiss chocolate, and Gaby’s dry, rough palm is a warm weight against Napoleon’s palm. He talks without thinking much, indulges recklessly, drags them both for a long walk along the lake and takes deep breaths of the delicious air to try to steady his erratic heartbeat. He has already decided everything – a while ago and somewhere deep inside – but the actual realization happens in front of Maison des Halles, when Illya wipes the mascara smudge under Gaby’s left eye with his thumb and Napoleon stands right next to them, watching the luminous blue of the sky above and holding Gaby’s purse, so close that his shoulder brushes against Illya’s.

There is no hurry, none at all. Napoleon takes his five minutes, and another five, and another, showing them the beautiful houses on Rue du Pommier before taking them to see his private collection. Someplace no one else has been, under lock and key. 

For such a huge step, it feels terrifyingly easy.


	2. The Cordial Affairs (Humour, OT3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby Teller makes her opinions known; Illya Kuryakin is not letting trifles become a deterrent to his personal happiness; Napoleon Solo isn’t sure how exactly he has sinned to deserve his current predicaments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The higher the building the lower the morals." - Noel Coward

**I In which Napoleon hasn’t got all day.**

Napoleon hasn’t got all day, and if these two cannot make their minds up, they’ll never get started, and if they don’t get started, they will be distracted and woolgathering on the job and also, perhaps more importantly, they just won’t pay attention to _him_. Which is just a travesty. He’s just heard a great joke about a Russian, an American and a Frenchman stranded on a desert island and he’s dying to tell it, but he won’t waste such a precious piece of offensive humor on deaf, blushing ears. Bullshit.

But no, he’s been standing in the doorway for _ages_ , seriously, maybe three whole minutes, watching them teeter on the brink, so to speak, heads bent over a chessboard but the game clearly forgotten if one went by all the soulful gazing and the lusty lip-licking. Peril has not really been breathing for most of these truly interminable three minutes while Napoleon has been watching, and if this keeps up, he’s going to need some CPR. Good thing the chop shop girl is right there for some long time coming mouth-to-mouth. Come on. Come on. Oh come on, hurry the fuck up! It’s a great joke, it has a monkey in it! It’s the most useful thing the CIA contact in Borneo had to say to Napoleon today! Lock those lips, you stupid children!

“Now kiss!” blurts out Napoleon, but luck abandons him because these two idiots spring apart as if stung by a rattlesnake and give him matching glares that are in no way adorable. Napoleon throws up his arms and stomps away. 

They are not worthy of his hilarious desert island joke anyway.

 

**II In which Gaby is undercover as a dancer.**

Gaby is center stage, dancing like a little devil while wearing an impossibly flimsy and amazingly beautiful outfit made of sequins and feathers, and the big band orchestra drowns the club in music that creates sunny freedom even in the bleak midwinter in Oslo. 

Napoleon Solo, jack of all trades, is playing the sax two meters away from Gaby’s shaking pert bottom, while Illya Kuryakin is mingling with the audience, for once blending in perfectly in a crowd where most are as tall, large and blond as him.

Gaby watches his bulging eyes and bulging biceps, the contained jealousy and the self-deprecation. She twirls on the brightly lit stage, thinking, ‘behave, you shouldn’t’, and he hides behind his fruity cocktail, abashed: ‘no, I shouldn’t, sorry, Fraulein.’ 

She thinks about him sliding two long thick fingers inside her. Grand rond de jambe jeté. Pas de bourrée couru. First arabesque!

She thinks about him pushing his cock into her in one smooth stroke. Brisé volé, bras croisés, pirouette en dehors. Second arabesque!

Saxophone solo! Solo!

Fouetté jeté!

Gaby thinks about Illya’s thrusts edging on violence, a harried hammering rhythm. Just like the beat she’s dancing to. It’s a nice thought, and when the music dies and she strikes a pose, the entire club erupts into thunderous applause.

 

**III In which Illya has very cold hands, and other problems as well.**

Illya won’t claim being the sharpest tool in the shed, certainly not, but he has had to study world history and calculus just like everybody else. It is not all self-defense and weapons training at the KGB academy, you know.

Therefore, Illya is perfectly capable of adding two and two and getting thirty-nine, as in degrees Celsius, as in the fever he seems to suffer from when it comes to Fraulein Gaby Teller. Something about her is just right, or rather, everything about her is very, very fine indeed: from her reasonable height to her compact frame; from her controlling, no-nonsense attitude to her unsophisticated playfulness; from the way she unsuccessfully hides her hangover behind oversized plastic sunglasses to the way she can spend hours digging through an engine that any sensible person would admit has died a horrible death ages ago. Everything about Gaby Teller is excellent. For Illya, just right.

But there is the small difficulty of holding Gaby’s attention. Attracting it does not seem to be a problem, not for Illya, not for any other tall adult man with some muscle definition. Illya has noticed Gaby’s wandering eye and easy appreciation of a wide range of assets. He is not certified in surveillance for nothing, you know.

However, keeping Gaby interested long enough for Illya to show himself to the best possible advantage, from the aforementioned muscle definition to considerable stamina to not insignificant experience, has proven to be more of a challenge than originally anticipated.

Illya has been carefully broadcasting his availability since Rome, and ensuring easy and reliable access to his body ever since Istanbul. He has applied himself to this whole intercourse thing with great diligence. He didn’t win that silver medal at the power boat championship because he was slacking off, you know. 

And even if Gaby Teller’s appetites could, under suitably scientific circumstances, be categorized as exhausting, Illya is not going to let such trifles become a deterrent to his personal happiness. He is striving for approval here, all around the clock. Bedroom, bathroom, car occasionally.

If this is taking any kind of toll on Illya, it is insignificant. Really. Illya has survived on three hours of sleep before. It’s nothing. These past months have been fine.

Well, actually, they have been mildly embarrassing because of Solo, who sees everything even when he does not comment, and knowing that Solo knows exactly what you have been doing when you bump into him as you’re stumbling back to your hotel room at three a.m. can put a bit of a damper on anyone’s mood. Well, Illya is made of sterner stuff. Besides, Solo, in a rumpled suit and with smudges of dark cherry lipstick on his neck, has no room to talk anyway.

Despite his steadfast efforts, Illya is slightly worried that his progress is not as reassuring as he would like it to be. Indeed, some days, when, no matter how much time he spends rubbing his perpetually cold hands, Gaby still flinches a little as he hooks her legs over his shoulders, and Illya’s sharp eyes notice the goosebumps on her inner thighs before she gruffly nudges his head forward so he can get down to business without further delay, Illya’s insides clench uncomfortably at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he has made no progress at all and is about to be traded for someone more warm-blooded and proficient. 

Like Solo, for instance. Solo is right there and he certainly looks warm enough.

This is all terribly upsetting but Illya grits his teeth and perseveres. He makes very good tea and helps Gaby lift heavy things in the workshop. Using Solo’s eyerolls as a rather reliable indicator, he picks the most flattering turtlenecks in his wardrobe and wears them extensively. He doesn’t murder _anyone_ who gets an appreciative whistle from Gaby as they walk down some busy street.

He is perfectly house-trained, thank you. Illya dares anyone to disagree.

Illya won’t ever claim being the best of the best, in the KGB or in the line-up of men Gaby could have if she wanted to. Certainly not. But he has a steady fire burning in him even if his hands are cold, and he thinks that if Gaby really sees how cozy he can make it for her, she might want to stay a while. He’ll keep her warm enough, thank you very much.

He is _certified_ as an excellent lover, you know.

 

**IV In which Napoleon is in unprecedented trouble.**

Waverly gave them a week off. That’s practically an eternity.

Napoleon doesn’t know what he’ll do: he doesn’t have any illicit jobs lined up, no colorful paintings calling out his name, no fixed rendez-vous. (These days, he mostly beds women to kiss their necks and not to liberate any Tiffany or Cartier that might happen to be around those necks. Really.)

But even though Napoleon has no plans, he intends to get the most out of this week. Seize the chance, seize the day. This means getting away from his partners, putting as much distance between himself and Peril and Miss Teller as possible.

Napoleon almost shivers. A week off means a week of freedom. Free at last.

Free from the faint, moist scent of sex he catches coming from between Miss Teller’s thighs when Napoleon sits next to her in the briefing room, studiously staring at her long legs stretching from under the miniskirt because the sight gives him focus while the scent drives him mad. 

Free from the sight of bite marks and light bruises on Peril’s neck – they come and go like clouds running across the sky, but there’s always something marring his pale, scarred skin, frequently black and blue shaped like Miss Teller’s fingers. Napoleon does his best to concentrate on the smell of gunpowder and the banging sounds of gunfire, as routine and unappealing as possible, because the smells and sounds are mundane but the sight is nothing short of a miracle, the way it ties Napoleon in knots like a boy.

Free from the disgusting and disgustingly familiar displays of affection that Miss Teller and Peril keep treating him with day in and day out, attached at the hip and ganging up on him so that Napoleon is constantly outvoted whatever they’re about to do as a unit.

Free at last: a whole week when life might taste like the good old days, when Napoleon wasn’t fixated like a fool.

Napoleon manages to cling to that happy little thought of freedom for five whole minutes as he walks down to the elevator and waits for it to arrive, but ‘ding’ it goes and Napoleon’s fragile hopes are shattered. There’s rapid clicking of Miss Teller’s heels and Peril’s deadly quiet approach that Napoleon registers solely because hairs stand up on the back of his neck, his body sensing danger. The doors slide shut behind them and three’s a crowd in the tiny glass elevator.

The third beaded button of Miss Teller’s bright orange blouse is unbuttoned and Napoleon’s nose is assaulted by the heavy musk of sex when Peril leans against the elevator wall to his left. Miss Teller’s smile is warm, wide, radiant. The sight is driving Napoleon mad and the scent makes his insides clench. He gives the two of them his best placid smirk.

“We’re getting married!” Miss Teller blurts out, restless on her feet. Her heels are loud like gunfire in the tiny space.

“Congratulations,” drawls Napoleon, genuinely glad and genuinely about to pass out at the thought of them going at it between the sheets like rabbits, high on the honey moon rush, when Peril lays his huge friendly paw on Napoleon’s shoulder and gives him a hearty shake.

“Going to Istanbul for the week,” he rumbles, right into Napoleon’s ear. “You’re coming with us, friend.”

Catching an armful of Miss Teller, Napoleon finds himself being hugged from both sides and does his best deep cover work to date as he keeps smiling and offering congratulations.

A whole week. It’s practically an eternity.

 

**V In which Gaby wants a Spanish car, which means that Illya is taken by surprise at the most inopportune moment.**

They have to depart for Lanzarote in six minutes and twenty three seconds and Illya is already in gear, boots-socks-pullover-jacket in place; he’s pulling on his pants and mentally going over the knives and guns he’s packed in his bag when Gaby shuts her locker and unexpectedly unbuttons her blazer – Illya catches a glimpse of a shoulder holster – before rolling her shoulders and sliding to her knees in one smooth notion without as much as by-your-leave. She then pulls Illya’s cock out of his briefs and, ignoring his indignant sputtering, gives him exactly the kind of cheeky, imperious smile that he always reacts to in a very predictable way. 

And even though Illya would most certainly like to object because they have to depart in five minutes and thirty seconds, the plane is literally _right there_ waiting for them, Gaby gives him two tugs that work just so, like they always do and that’s it, he gets it up even though how on earth does he manage that, all the blood in Illya’s body is rushing to his _face_ , that’s how hard he blushes.

Gaby slips her mouth over his cock like she’d slip the key into ignition. The effect is much the same.

There are – things inside him that come into motion. Like gears turning. He won’t call it butterflies in his stomach. He won’t call it anything. It is something brutal, forceful, and disturbingly smooth: Illya feels like he’s a well-oiled machine, an automaton with all the bits set in motion. 

It’s all Gaby’s fault, damn it all. He’s so _easy_. She does him, does him in, works him with her mouth on his cock and her strong hands on his straining thighs and tight balls.

She’s laughing at him, Illya can tell. Her expression is completely deadpan but there’s that hellish mischief in her eyes.

How she pulls off this unflappable look with her mouth full of cock, Illya doesn’t know.

He comes with a strangled groan one minute and fifty four seconds before they are supposed to depart from Valencia and he stays upright by sheer force of will as Gaby swallows efficiently and pushes his hypersensitive cock back into his briefs, zips up Illya’s pants and stands back up, lithe and quick like a panther. 

Illya is sure that he’s wearing a most dazed expression as he picks up his bag, Gaby’s bag, and follows her to the door on legs that are most certainly not shaky.

“What was that,” he breathes, already dreading the most obvious answer. 

And sure, Gaby opts to ignore him as she struts out the door and yells, “Solo! We made it! You owe me a SEAT!”

“Don’t hold your breath, he hasn’t stolen it yet,” grumbles Illya - unfortunately, loud enough for Solo to hear him.

“Well, no, Peril, I don’t work as fast as you.”

 

**VI In which Gaby makes her opinion clear.**

Gaby appears deceptively fragile next to Illya, but really, that is just because he is so large. Ridiculously large. Enormous. He is built like a brick shithouse, and one big enough to cater to an entire kolhoz, at that. He is even taller than Solo, who is already bigger than anyone needs to be. Some days Gaby has to wonder just how they are getting any spying done, because Waverly has given her two anthropomorphic tanks instead of human intelligence operatives.

But Gaby is neither small nor short, despite the fact that she looks just that when Illya walks beside her, or when they are sitting side by side on a sofa (or dozing on that same sofa, curled up together and ignoring Solo’s huffing and puffing). Gaby is quite strong and, more importantly, mean, so when she punches, she makes it count. She certainly isn’t afraid to throw her weight around.

Her physical fitness and combat readiness come in handy tonight, when Illya stumbles in after the mission in Maribor. Stumbles in with a coy smile on his face, having missed two check-ins and having left Gaby worried sick. Even Solo had taken to wearing that horrible grimace of his, something between nausea and indigestion, which is what Gaby knows to be Solo’s preferred facial expression for terrible concern: he has practiced it in the mirror and deemed it appropriately sad and least likely to give him wrinkles. So when Illya stumbles in tonight, acting as though he is unaware of how much trouble he is in, Gaby just has to narrow her eyes and tackle him down. And when they are sprawled on the shag carpet – horribly dusty because Illya has been away and Gaby certainly isn’t going to vacuum clean it herself – Gaby proceeds to give him a piece of her mind.

She articulates very carefully, and doesn’t mangle a single Russian consonant even in the most complicated swear words. 

Illya lies under her demurely, all his massive bulk as useless as a sack of potatoes, and takes the scolding as is his due. Gaby grits her teeth thinking about the missed check-ins and the very close brushes with death they mean. She has already read the report he has sent to Waverly. She knows exactly what she is talking about, and Illya is damn right to be abashed. He should be. His place is either under Gaby or six feet underground, but never out of her reach. And he’d better stop trying to do his damned best to leave where he belongs and slide into an early grave, or Gaby is going to choke him herself. Really, she thought she had made it clear from the start, but maybe Illya needs a reminder.

Any more of this behavior and he’ll give Gaby grey hair that no chemicals will be able to conquer. Hell, he’ll give Solo those wrinkles he keeps worrying about and he just won’t be able to handle it, poor vain thing. 

When Gaby is finally convinced that there are no misunderstandings, she allows Illya to peel himself off the floor and unpack, then take a shower and eat. She doesn’t mix punishment with pleasure. When she is satisfied with the amount of warm dinner Illya has put in his belly, she takes him to the bedroom and makes him sleep in their warm bed. 

He sleeps for twenty-four hours. Mission fatigue.

Later, however, when both of them are fully rested and cooled down from the fight and fright, Gaby holds Illya tight and presses him into the sheets. The rush of control is dizzyingly sweet, and she fucks him for many hours, gets inside him, hard. She makes it count when she takes him, slides in with strong movements and leaves no room for misinterpretation. Smooth strokes of the strap-on leave Illya gasping and smiling under her, and Gaby is very warm and comfortable. She has him in her sights.

 

**VII In which Napoleon is not sure how exactly he has sinned to deserve this.**

Napoleon knows that there is no shame in crying. Crying is necessary, a natural reaction of a healthy body. Lots of things may prompt crying, and really, better out than in: crying makes the heart lighter and drains the horrible tension from the body. But.

Napoleon absolutely refuses to cry _now_ , even though angry frustration is all but choking him and furious tears make his eyes prickle. No, absolutely not, out of the question. Napoleon is ready to stoop very low, any day, but there is this puny matter of self-respect.

So he just stays still in his narrow bed, breathing in and out, quiet like a mouse, and wonders with helpless rage what on earth has he done to deserve this.

Oh, he remembers many terrible crimes and immoral ventures, sure, but something tells Napoleon that when fate finally catches up with him, he will get a different kind of painful retribution. Not this.

 _This_ is simply outrageous.

Napoleon counts paintings like sheep, one Ghirlandaio, two Ghirlandaios, three Ghirlandaios. Three feet away from him, in the other narrow bed, there is much ado about nothing, much heavy breathing muffled between Gaby’s fit thighs and noisy rustling of cheap sheets against one particularly tall, large body. What for. It is so terribly unfair. 

Were Napoleon a little less ruffled, a little less stirred by the romp those two have unceremoniously instigated in their shared room in a shabby apartment in Montreal, he would have simply sneered and spoken up. He would have faked trouble breathing and turned it into a crude joke, he would have jerked off, loudly and blatantly, to make a fucking point. 

Unfortunately, his chest moves in a languid sleepy rhythm by sheer force of will, and not because Napoleon is unimpressed and unconcerned. Unfortunately, Napoleon’s arousal is too brutal and primal, like a fist slamming into his ribcage, and it leaves him unable to jibe even as Illya works his way up and down Gaby’s body while she hisses and jerks.

Unfortunately, Napoleon is in trouble.

Don’t they mind the lack of privacy, Napoleon desperately wonders. He makes an effort not to clench his hands in the ratty sheets as Illya thrusts shallowly into Gaby. He visualizes opening a 24-bolt Diebold vault door, in meticulous detail. Despite that, his ears still treacherously register every slurp and groan coming from Gaby’s lush mouth. 

Don’t they mind Napoleon’s presence.

Napoleon wants to cry, and he wants to cry out when the other bed shakes perilously and the two of them come, one after another, both winning the carnal race to completion. He doesn’t cry out, of course, he doesn’t even whimper when Gaby and Illya get back to sloppy kissing and casual groping. He continues to fake sleep, uncomfortably hard and overcome by heavy frustration. He will be tense and exhausted in the morning.

If those two are counting on Napoleon to make them breakfast, they will be sorely disappointed.

 

**VIII In which Gaby has some work done on her SEAT.**

Waverly appears out of nowhere with information about a large-scale financial conspiracy reaching from Washington to Sydney to Johannesburg, and Gaby knows that time is of essence. A different UNCLE team is put in charge, and three different agents have to navigate the perils of big money and big lies in Australia, South Africa, and the US. But Waverly likes keeping them on standby and Gaby can physically feel the way time passes. The ticking of Illya’s watch echoes in her bones. 

She knows that the three of them can get deployed at any moment. They are sitting on a metaphorical ticking bomb while drinking delicious coffee, Turkish style, in Gaby’s kitchen. It is always so very nice when Napoleon drops by, no matter how early in the morning.

Indeed, why does he ever need to leave? 

Alert and perhaps a touch high-strung from the coffee, Gaby goes down to the garage, leaving Illya to do the dishes and to vacuum the stubborn, awful carpets. They may have to leave soon, and Gaby is itching to play with her new car just a little. The SEAT Napoleon got her is beautiful, majestic lines and contained power, all confident elegance of form and a sweet engine. 

Just like Napoleon Solo himself, really.

Gaby gets under the hood simply for the sake of keeping her hands busy and her mind clear. Time flows, liquid and necessary like hydraulic fluid, and Gaby does not know if it has been an hour or two when she hears Illya’s familiar footfalls. When he wants to be heard, he walks almost like a civilian. A very dangerous, deadly civilian. But courteous; and anyway, what does it matter as long as he is Gaby’s.

Her hands are respectably dirty from the grease, carrying the scent of metal, and she places them both on the back of Illya’s head while tasting his lips. Hot. Familiar. She opens her eyes and looks over Illya’s shoulder, meets Napoleon’s gaze – hot, familiar – and slides out of Illya’s embrace. All speed, all power, no breaks. He watches them and they like him.

Gaby presses her body against Napoleon’s, imagines the glint in Illya’s eyes – she is getting Napoleon’s bespoke suit dirty – and stifles any possible outburst with her mouth. And imagine that, Napoleon’s lips are also hot, and sinfully smooth, and tasting like coffee. Just like Illya’s.

Napoleon likes them but he doesn’t like to watch them. She knows. So why be awkward when they can do everything just right, she thinks, pulling him on top of her as she finds purchase on the cool metal.

They like him and he likes them, and time is of essence. Gaby hears the ticking of Illya’s watch through the rush of blood in her ears, and she peers through her eyelashes, reluctant to relinquish her hold on Napoleon’s intoxicating mouth. Illya’s right hand is in Napoleon’s hair and with his left, he opens the SEAT’s door. 

Now that’s a nice thought. And when Napoleon lifts her up, they find the perfect way to fit inside.

 

**IX In which Gaby and Napoleon get dressed according to Illya’s taste.**

Illya is decidedly excited about the current mission. The logistics are terrible, the timing is awful, the informants are suspicious and they may all end up dead, but Illya gets to dress both Gaby _and_ Napoleon, so really, all the rest is inconsequential details.

He keeps the two of them distracted at the crucial moment with a heap of Givenchy, Dior and Balenciaga jewelry, and while they rummage through the heavy trinkets like magpies, Illya makes his final selection. 

Avant-garde in radical colors: short, bold dresses for Gaby, with plastic and metal accents (Illya discards the paper cape as impractical, though not without regret), and flamboyant cuts and eye-catching designs for Napoleon, far more unconventional than his usual armor. When they walk out of the dressing-rooms, showing off the first outfits, Napoleon grumbles that it’s like Paco Rabanne and Salvador Dali _both_ vomited on them. Gaby just rolls her eyes but Illya doesn’t care. It’s modern and beautiful. 

A slap in the face of public taste.

And look at the two of them. They match.

 

**X In which Napoleon doesn’t say anything.**

Napoleon hasn’t got all day, and if these two will not fucking hurry up, they’ll never get to the damn restaurant on time, and this time, Napoleon is quite adamant they take full advantage of the reservation, fatigue and stubbornness be damned. 

It’s not the Michelin stars, or the live music, or the location at the very heart of Paris where everything is pulsing and alive; it’s just the fact that this is something Napoleon has _wanted_ and _planned_ , and the not inconsiderable part of him that is ugly, possessive and egotistic wants Illya and Gaby to _pay attention to him_. 

He wants to watch Illya’s face while he smokes the _Gitanes_ and cuts into a rare steak with murderous precision. He wants to watch Gaby fiddle with the tablecloth and stare at the other patrons like a bird-watching girl scout before remembering to play-act and transforming into a princess in a blink of an eye. He wants excellent food and excellent company, and he craves it right this very moment; he wants to spend their final free night in France in a way that might quench his thirst, if only for a little while. 

Napoleon _wants_ this, he has made _plans_ and, unfortunately, he is sure that both Illya and Gaby know full well how overjoyed he is, even though he makes an effort not to show it. Alas, he has become quite transparent. What bullshit.

But he won’t let them spoil this precious evening, he thinks, drawing deep breaths and ushering Illya and Gaby through the ornate door, and he will not spoil it himself, will not let his lips stretch in an insufferably stupid, besotted smile as the two of them give him matching inquisitive looks over the menus, matching mischievous smirks and matching kicks under the table when Napoleon lets slip some vulgar joke they wouldn’t have minded at home.

He will not say anything like _I love you_ , seriously.

What’s the point? He has lucked out anyway.


	3. The Nocturnal Affairs (Suspense, Illya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya Kuryakin does what he likes by doing what Gaby likes, and Solo is being difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life's like a play: it's not the length, but the excellence of the acting that matters." - Lucius Annaeus Seneca

**I lure you into the dark**

A fragile, scratched vinyl record haltingly fills the ramshackle room with the chiming voice of Libertad Lamarque. Illya takes off his shoes and the creaky floorboards immediately begin leeching warmth from his socked feet. He’d really like to smoke right now.

The narrow bed dips when he sits down and the springs screech in protest under Illya’s weight. He’s hungry; the fugazza he’d snatched before the stakeout is nothing but a memory. His stomach clenches at the thought of the sweet onion taste. 

The door opens, letting in a cold draft and Solo, his black hair damp and water rivulets making his shirt stick to his chest. He gives Illya his usual sleek grimace – a raised eyebrow, a smirk tugging at just one corner of his mouth. Illya can tell that Solo hates this: the dilapidated house, the dingy apartment, the bathroom at the end of a dirty hallway. 

Solo can shove his displeasure up his ass.

This assignment has been going on forever.

Illya would really like to sleep right now.

He listens to Gaby’s measured breaths. She’s asleep on the other bed, a meter between her and Illya, and her fingers twitch restlessly above the blankets, as if she’s dreaming about hotwiring a car. Gaby has hotwired a lot of cars over the past weeks.

Solo putters about in the darkness, carefully putting away his pants and shirt – and why does he bother folding it, he’ll wake up at four a.m. just to go down the hallway and wash it with soap and cold water. He mouths the lyrics to Madreselva, no sound, just the movement of his lips, and Illya is stupidly glad that he doesn’t have to hear Solo’s self-satisfied drawl right now. 

Just a clear, tender woman’s voice, made even more magical by the noisy scratching of the needle.

Illya looks at Gaby’s face, soft with sleep, and catches the exact moment she wakes up. It’s when Solo runs his wide palm over her bare shoulder and keeps it there, thumb and forefinger brushing against the skin of her neck. She looks at Illya through her long eyelashes and smiles. 

Her skin must be warm with sleep.

They have been together since Istanbul, glued at the hip, mission or downtime. They fit seamlessly on the job. Gaby is a little green but Illya is a seasoned operative. He knows what commands he needs and he teaches her to give them.

She teaches him what she likes.

Illya is tired, hungry, and there’s yet another long day tomorrow. But instead of food and sleep, Gaby gives him something else. 

Illya rests his eyes on Solo’s stocky body, looming naked over Gaby in her tiny bed. He always sleeps naked even though it’s chilly. He’s completely shameless.

Illya feasts on the sight of Gaby pulling away the blanket and drawing Solo in, making him climb under the covers and stretch above her. Solo kisses her arched neck and Gaby smells his freshly washed, curling hair. Illya’s eyes can easily trace the outline of her arms under the blankets, running down Solo’s back and squeezing his ass as he fucks into her, slowly and shallowly.

The needle jumps and garbles the song. For a few moments, there’s just the soft knocking of the headboard against the thin wall, the drag of the bed’s legs across the floorboards, and Gaby’s heavy breathing. 

When the song restarts, Gaby looks straight at Illya, her doe-like eyes flashing in the darkness, and fists her small hand in Solo’s black hair. Illya’s fingers twitch reflexively on his thighs, mirroring the motion, and he devours Gaby with his eyes as she thrashes under Solo, meeting his steady thrusts. The refrain fades.

Illya listens to the night, the dark, the sound of bodies moving. The sound of Gaby’s pleasure.

She exclaims when she comes, a clear _ah_ that chimes in the cool silence.

Sated, Illya lies down on his bed, still clothed, and slips into dreamless sleep.

 

**II so deep is the night**  


The shadows fall and tangle underfoot as the evening advances. Illya watches the slow movement of the hands of the clock on the wall. Illya himself is very still, immobilized by a mixture of exhaustion, hunger and residual anger. 

If it weren’t for the fading light and the measured ticking of the clock, more reliable than his own heartbeat, Illya might have been driven to doubt the passage of time.

But, presumably, time passes.

Illya watches the dimness drip into the room through the narrow, open windows, and listens to the distant roar of the traffic. Inside the room, there is silence and cigarette smoke; outside, blinking streetlights and booming noise. Somewhere out there, there is Gaby reporting to Waverly, directly but discreetly, and there is Solo, dropping the relevant evidence. It is a separate drop.

Illya does not doubt that Solo will do everything to make sure that the transfer is secure. He does not doubt Solo’s efficiency. He stares at the floor, and at the flakes of ash that litter it where the surface is battered and bare, not covered by the thin, ragged excuse for a carpet.

He smokes – tobacco for lunch, tobacco for dinner, bitter taste curling on his tongue – and watches the fleeting grey shapes which seem to live a life of their own below. There are long shadows stretching across the scratched floorboards of the safe-house in London, trembling shadows crawling underneath the rickety chairs and the old bed. The clock is ticking and the traffic, judging by the noise, finally ebbs in the distance.

Illya is not supposed to be here. He is not supposed to be in the country, in London: under the current circumstances, he must not be seen. Which is why he is alone at the safe-house right now, like a fox in a hole, unable to even report in person. He trusts Gaby to pass adequate information regarding the assignment: in his professional estimation, she is capable. And yes, he trusts Gaby to give the mission report on his behalf: again, that is professional trust, a reasonable attitude towards a fellow agent – despite the considerable difference in experience, he and Gaby are both in the same position at UNCLE right now, and they are faring well together. That’s what matters. 

He even trusts in Solo’s ability to exercise a secure, undetected drop with no complications. Illya knows that Solo’s showy displays are for when he actually has to be putting on a show, and that Solo is just as capable of being a forgettable extra as of being the star of the production. Professionally, he has no apparent reasons to be concerned.

But as the darkness thickens and the cigarette taste in his mouth grows so intense that it almost makes him nauseous, Illya listens for the beat of his own heart and wonders if his progressing personal relationship with the other agents has not addled his clear vision and judgment.

The fact is, he is not supposed to be here. Too much weight is attached to Illya’s current legend, too much risk. And if he were found out right now, in this very moment, by someone with the right sort of clearance, he would be dead, simple as that. Too many people have relevant orders. 

And therefore, Illya cannot help feeling too vulnerable and exposed even as he is hidden away in a dingy place in an unremarkable part of town. His mind may be hazy with lack of sleep, but not so much that he fails to recognize how much he currently depends on the goodwill of UNCLE as an organization, of Waverly, of Gaby and Solo. He could be so easily eliminated right now.

He trusts Gaby and Solo, but they are much easier to trust in person, when they are physically close and dependent on each other. The less distance between them, the better: one mission, one plane, one car, one bed. One sweaty tangle of limbs, bodies pressed too close and generating obscene heat. Then, trust is easier.

Alone, Illya trusts the bright red dot of the cigarette flame and the inexorable ticking of the clock.

Still, he stays.

The smoke fills the room despite the cold draft from the nearest open window. He could open it even further, or close it, or do push-ups on the dusty floor, but Illya is reluctant to move from the old chair that creaks under him occasionally. He hardly moves at all. 

He stays and he waits.

Time, indubitably, passes. Illya feels the viscous darkness roll around him, and peers into the outlines of queer phantom shapes that form and dissolve from one second to the next. Black on black, and grey tendrils of smoke, and cold currents of night air from the open windows. 

The shapes look like Gaby and Illya standing side-by-side, no longer pretending to be someone who needs protection and someone who does the protecting, like their heads bent together over a mission brief and trading acerbic remarks, like his hands on hers as he teaches her to shoot. Illya does not like Solo’s style one whit, and he wouldn’t trust the improvement of Gaby’s skills – and, by extension, their lives – to Solo’s mentorship.

In the beginning, in Rome, she’d lured him in with a classic honeypot maneuver, so transparent that Illya had no choice but to whole-heartedly pretend to fall for it if he wanted to keep some leverage in the situation. It was understandable, and no reason to hold a grudge. Illya would have done the same.

Now, it has been a while, and they fit together quite well. Their bond is obviously more substantial than smoke and shadows, but just as hard to pinpoint and to define. They have a working understanding of each other and of their situation, with UNCLE and with their original agencies. They do what they both like.

Gaby likes to be watched and Illya likes to be given orders. It’s good. They understand each other.

The shadows lengthen, thicken, appear as an outline of Solo’s heavy, tall frame wrapped around Gaby and pulling her onto the old cold bed. He’s fully dressed in a three-piece suit, he’s naked under the sheets, he’s gone. 

The room is empty save for the darkness and the uneven, quiet sound of Illya’s breathing.

Solo is difficult. Gaby and Illya figured out how to be together in Istanbul, and Solo became useful, necessary in ways that did not involve breaking and entering and establishing covers. Solo is shameless, but he likes being shameless on his own terms. Therefore, Gaby’s arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder and her quiet insistence that they need it, _come on, Solo, don’t be a spoilsport, do it for the team_ – all of it doubtless grated on the American’s nerves. Gaby was tugging on a leash Solo probably hadn’t known he had. 

And yet it took fewer days and nights to convince Solo than Illya had initially assumed. 

He quickly learned the ways in which Solo could be nimble and agile despite his bulk. Now, Illya knows full well the manner in which Solo chooses to put his body on display and which scars and imperfections he prefers to hide. Solo likes to be admired and dislikes everything that interferes with said admiration. He is genuinely convinced that he is skilled in bed, and, just like with the vault at the Vinciguerra plant, his self-assessment is a bit blown out of proportion. 

But sex is not marksmanship, and both Illya and Gaby figure that their lives are unlikely to depend on Solo’s adequate estimation of his ability. He’s decent with a gun, save for a few drawbacks – he’s a bit less in bed, but he’ll do. Gaby enjoys herself just fine.

The alternative means bringing in a stranger and compromising the integrity of their UNCLE unit, so Solo just _has_ to do. 

Gaby tells him to watch and Illya does, committing to memory the way Solo’s palms press on her shoulders and the way Solo’s hips press against her hips. Watching is comfortable; it brings an almost calming clarity. Watching is something that Illya has a lot of experience with, it is familiar and easy in the way throwing a punch or cocking a gun is easy: something that comes with frequent repetition, a honed skill. Illya is good at watching. It pleases Gaby. 

And it pleases Illya that he can please Gaby, that there are clear instructions he can follow and get satisfactory results. Every night that they do this is a relief: then, Illya can be very good at what Gaby tells him to do, and obeying the order is pleasurable and uncomplicated; knowing that Gaby likes what she orders him to do makes it even better. For Illya, watching Gaby in bed with Solo has been invariably satisfying.

But when Gaby tells him to join them, Illya enjoys it far less.

He rummages for a last cigarette, lights it and watches the tip glow as he takes painfully deep, painfully acrid drags. The shadows turn inky and capricious, blur and blend in a bizarre slow dance by the window, on the wall, and on the bed. They look like Solo, Gaby and Illya together, twisting around each other and making simple things complicated while trying to make complicated things simple. Illya really wishes it wasn’t this way.

It is largely Solo’s fault, of course, and it has less to do with how he acts in bed than with how he behaves when out of it. Solo is difficult.

Solo has his own yearnings burning inside of him, but those are not, by any stretch, mysterious. He is greedy, ambitious, seeking validation and admiration; he is a gambling man; Solo’s desires can be read like an open book provided one is capable of careful observation, and Illya is observant. Therefore, Solo’s desires do not surprise him. When it’s three of them in the same bed instead of Illya watching, Illya is never thrown off by the way Solo chooses to touch or how he invites a response in kind. Illya can comprehend what Solo wants. It is like studying the terrain; the logistical solutions suggest themselves based on the available evidence. 

And so, no matter how much Solo preens and leers, no matter how impenetrable he considers his affable mask to be, he is easy to read. Illya has watched him a lot. Illya understands.

That doesn’t mean that Illya necessarily likes it.

By now, Illya knows what Solo likes in bed and what he is ready to do; he also knows what Solo is ready to do when Illya is in the same bed. And for Illya, it can be pleasurable: because someone (Gaby) tells him what to do, because someone (Solo) can be good enough at the purely physical aspect of what they do in return. But it is also uncomfortable because Solo, for all that he pretends to be easy-going and debonair, unconcerned and unaffected by their arrangement, is really damn difficult.

Solo lashes out. Solo chases cheap thrills and is constantly concerned whether someone is questioning his ability and judgment – and in situations when his ability and judgment may indeed be lacking, Solo’s reactions are doubly violent. It is a nuisance. 

Illya understands how Solo may have been the CIA’s most effective agent. Even if that has been misinformation, overselling a man to distract the enemy – still, even if Solo is second or third best, he is impressive. He has a good success rate, and Illya may not like Solo’s approach to firearms but he has thoroughly appreciated the American’s contributions to their missions in Turkey and Argentina. Nevertheless, Solo’s indubitable efficiency does not negate the fact that he is vexing beyond belief.

Solo is difficult because he is smug, and he can be casually rude, and has the tendency to conceal his lack of knowledge about a particular subject with oblique phrases and disparagement. Illya knows that this is just a strategy to mask ignorance and wheedle out more information, but it’s a strategy that he never enjoys directed at himself, and he’d rather it wasn’t used within their UNCLE unit. They should at least pretend to be friends and cultivate politeness. If they can be lovers, why can’t they be that?

Here is the answer: because Solo is difficult. Solo is mean, prone to suspicion in matters unrelated to the job, egotistic and paranoid, constantly seeking to construct other’s opinions of himself to his liking. Professionally, Illya considers him a possible liability to them functioning as an UNCLE unit, purely because of these character flaws, and on a personal level, Illya finds Solo tiresome. On a personal level, Illya is irked that Solo always drags all his issues to bed.

Illya can sleep with Gaby, he can sleep with her and Solo if she tells him to, he could sleep with Solo if she likes – not that it is likely to happen, since Solo’s fragile masculinity may not survive it, apparently – but Illya is damn tired of sleeping with Solo’s fears and delusions. 

Life is not a bed of roses, and espionage is not an easy job no matter how you look at it. Sabotage and murder have long been part and parcel of Illya’s daily life; now, on permanent loan from the KGB to UNCLE, he knows that his distinguished service is likely to culminate in treason charges. Every government uses spies, and yet nobody likes them. Illya finishes his cigarette and rubs the tiny, still burning bit between his palms until it’s reduced to nothing.

He could do without Solo’s spiteful demons looming over them in bed, thank you very much.

The room is empty, quiet, and dark. Illya focuses on the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock until he himself feels hollowed, turned into an extension of silence and darkness. 

Officially, he is not supposed to be in London. Should MI-5 or MI-6 be alerted to his presence, he is to be apprehended as a Soviet spy; he will be disavowed, not traded. He will be likely killed. If he is discovered, UNCLE will not step in to save him: he will have exhausted his usefulness. Waverly has been very clear about this.

And yet here he is, in London because he was told to come to London despite the general mission framework. Here he is, waiting alone in the dark in a dingy flat because that’s what he’s been told to do. 

Gaby is not here. Solo is not here. Waverly is, of course, at the HQ. If it has been decided that Illya is to be given up, here he is, like a sitting duck, waiting for either MI-5 or MI-6 to show up at their convenience.

There is nothing else for Illya to do, really.

He closes his eyes, making the darkness complete, and tries to match his heartbeat, slightly erratic after so much smoking on an empty stomach, to the even sound of the clock on the wall.

Presumably, time passes before Illya hears someone opening the door.

If it’s Gaby, he’ll do whatever she says tonight.

 

**III you beneath the moon**

The night is cold, colder than Illya would have expected from Luxembourg in September. He wishes he could have a hot shower. He wishes he could have a cold shower; he wishes he could have something to ease the soreness of his muscles which seem to have turned into stubborn, thick knots under his skin. 

But the safe-house has only one bathroom, currently occupied by Gaby. Illya could join her, of course, but he knows that she is too tired. Better let her relax now; their escape from Brussels has been more difficult for her than for Illya. 

If she told him he could come in, he would have. But the bathroom door remains closed, and Illya hears nothing but the sound of running water. He pulls off his leather jacket, toes off his boots and falls on the sofa in the small living-room, decorated in garish shades of purple. 

He only closes his eyes for a minute, and is woken up by a slightly off-key, swingy rendition of yet another Ivor Novello song.

Illya has no idea where Solo picked up the habit. The only workable hypothesis is that, during their last trip to London, Waverly had a collection in his office and they listened to something while Illya was holed up at the safe-house all alone. Or perhaps Solo had seen the records and gone looking himself, a spot of research for fun. Who cares? The habit is new but the annoyance is familiar. Why on earth is Solo singing? In the past twenty-four hours, he has been shot at and got in a car crash. Why cannot he shut up? Illya strains his ears but hears no sound coming from the bathroom. He doesn’t know how much time has passed.

Solo’s voice, alternately strident and mellow when he speaks, takes on a sharp edge when he is singing. It could almost be called pleasant if not for the way he cuts himself off whenever he forgets the words – and Solo forgets the words a lot – and fills the silence – terse only because Solo himself makes it terse – with an unrelated remark and a smug smile. The cavalier attitude kills the mood as surely as a bullet to the head would kill a man.

Illya doesn’t like it when Solo sings, not because he objects to the singing, but because he finds the way Solo handles it obnoxious.

Luckily, it doesn’t seem like Solo is in the mood to pretend to be a great entertainer tonight. 

Through half-lidded eyes, Illya watches him walk to the record-player – as modern and ugly as the rest of the décor – and shake a vinyl disc out of its sleeve. Illya finds himself expecting more Ivor Novello, but it is actually something fast and jolly, a tune to dance to the way Gaby likes to dance. 

The song is in Japanese, and Solo sings along with ease, not missing a single word. He turns around and approaches Illya, looms over him. Solo’s eyes are cold but his mouth is laughing, masterfully shaping the words. _Koi no bakansu_.

Illya wants him to go away. Illya just wants to sleep.

The song, however, is nice. Illya might like to listen to it again tomorrow.

Illya doesn’t like holding Solo’s gaze – too naked, too shameless – so he lets his head loll to the side and looks away. He knows that he is slumped on the sofa, that his posture is soft, that his throat is exposed; he knows that Solo’s eyes are glued to him, and hungry. He doesn’t care. Solo never does anything, no matter how much he wants. 

If he wants to keep Illya awake and torment him with his musical numbers – after Illya has taken out the people who had been shooting at Solo, and pulled Solo out of the car which had been crashed beyond salvaging – well, let him. Illya knows just to how frustrate Solo, how to rile him up. Solo is anything but inscrutable.

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya sees the bathroom door open and watches Gaby step out, wrapped in a men’s bathrobe a bit too large for her. She leans against the doorframe, haloed by steam. Her face is pale, features sharpened by fatigue, but her eyes are soft and liquid as she smirks at Illya before darting a quick look at Solo. When she meets his eyes again, Illya is acutely aware of the way his hands are resting on his thighs, of his sweat-damp turtleneck sticking to his back, of the way he reeks of old sweat and of how close Solo keeps standing. His legs are almost brushing against Illya’s knees.

Gaby pulls the bathrobe tighter around herself. Her hair is limp and wet, dripping on the collar, and her mouth stretches in a tight, tired smile. There are water droplets clinging to her thick eyelashes.

The song stops and the room is filled with ringing silence. Illya wants nothing more but to fall asleep; however, he understands with an awful clarity that it is not about to happen. It has been obvious from the moment Gaby looked at him – no, from the moment she looked at Solo.

Gaby wants something. Gaby will say something.

She takes a deep breath and tells him, quiet and controlled as you please, to take Solo’s clothes off.

Illya resists the urge to roll his eyes at Solo’s sharp intake of breath. He rises, slowly straightening his spine, and makes sure his socked feet are firmly planted on the floor. It’s a struggle to stay awake but he can if he must, of course, and if Gaby tells him, he must. He reaches for the buttons of Solo’s jacket.

Obeying the order – mundane, simple, unrelated to sabotage and subterfuge unlike everything else Illya has been doing today – brings instant, deep gratification. He is told to undress Solo and he does, not too briskly, not too quickly, but efficiently. It does not require much concentration despite the fact that Solo is wearing a three-piece suit, and Illya finds the experience almost as relaxing and refreshing as actual sleep. 

He doesn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. He’d thank Gaby but he hasn’t been told to speak.

Illya takes off Solo’s jacket and throws it over the back of the sofa. Solo is probably glaring at him but Illya is not watching his face, and he has no intention to. He has no intention to be careful with Solo’s clothes, either. He yanks his tie off without ceremony, like the annoying, useless thing it is.

Illya unbuttons Solo’s vest at an even pace, not lingering, not hurrying. He notes the way Solo tenses at times, holds his breath, visibly struggles to abort some movement. Illya doesn’t care, not really.

Solo, too, reeks of sweat, and, mixed with the sharp notes of his expensive French cologne, it is particularly revolting. Illya has certainly smelled worse things, but he knows that it makes Solo uncomfortable, and the fact that Solo is uncomfortable sparks something akin to pleasure in his gut.

When he takes off Solo’s vest, he purposefully does it in such a way that forces Solo to lift his arms and show the sweat-stained armpits of his tight cotton shirt. In his side vision, Illya sees the angry clench of Solo’s jaw when he turns to put the vest with jacket.

Solo continues to radiate displeasure but mercifully doesn’t say anything as Illya untucks his shirttails, works the buttons open and finally takes off the shirt. Illya can tell that it makes Solo feel vulnerable. 

Solo perceives uncleanliness – or rather, lack of grooming, for Solo does not wash himself as often as Illya considers proper, for instance, and the chemical filth he puts in his hair is an homage to fashion, not cleanliness – as something shameful. Solo is embarrassed to be exposed like this: dirty, sweaty, battered. Illya is stripping Solo of his armor, and Solo is affronted and frustrated by it.

He only allows it because Illya does it under Gaby’s orders.

The thing is, thinks Illya even as he roughly pulls up Solo’s undershirt, finally leaving his torso bare, the thing is that Solo obviously wants Illya to expose him and leave him vulnerable. He is also obviously never going to ask for it, and that is the root of Solo’s continued aggravation.

The thing is, thinks Illya while pulling out Solo’s belt and working his trousers open, the thing is that Solo obviously, desperately desires Illya’s touch but is unwilling to allow it even if Illya were to offer out of his own volition. Out of the two of them, it is Illya who enjoys commands and control, but it’s Solo who clings to Gaby’s presence as a go-between, who needs an excuse.

Illya knows what Solo wants, and he finds the way Solo stubbornly denies himself tiresome and, frankly, laughable. Who is he fooling here? Who is he protecting his image from? Does Solo really think he is anything but transparent, that his yearnings haven’t been long understood by two intelligence operatives who have had the opportunity to observe him for a long time, in various situations, including the most intimate?

Does Solo really think that his preferences are somehow secret, and not referenced in dossiers of at least three agencies?

Ridiculous.

Illya has to leave Solo with his trousers pooled around his ankles and kneel down because he has forgotten all about shoes and socks. He unties the laces, pulls off the Oxfords, full out laughs at the way Solo jerks when Illya grabs one foot and pulls off one sock – and yes, Solo’s feet don’t smell fresh, either, and Illya still doesn’t need to look up to know that Solo is wearing a furious, humiliated expression, that he is deeply unhappy with the situation and yet perversely prefers it to the alternative, to something unforced, generous and mutually satisfying, because _that_ would be somehow, in his opinion, emasculating. 

Illya takes off the other sock, balls the two and shoves them inside a dirt-splattered leather shoe.

The thing is, Illya knows that Solo wants him – wants him on his own terms, unrelated to Illya’s relationship with Gaby, and to how Solo is merely an extension thereof, a body necessary for Gaby’s pleasure. The thing is, Illya doesn’t mind and doesn’t particularly care. He could certainly fuck Solo if Gaby told him to. He would have fucked Solo if Solo only asked, it’s no skin off Illya’s back.

But Solo doesn’t ever ask, only keeps up his hideous game of masochism and provocation, and Illya is not content to be belittled, both subtly and explicitly, just because he happens to be the object of Solo’s desire and Solo is determined to deny it altogether.

It is neither endearing nor amusing; indeed, the aggression with which Solo chooses to compensate for his unsatisfied craving when they are not in bed is so bothersome that Illya does not pity Solo, either. If that is his idea of stoic suffering and self-denial, he can shove it up his ass. Solo’s behavior is inconvenient, Solo’s behavior takes a toll on the team, Solo’s behavior annoys both Illya and Gaby. Solo’s behavior is completely unnecessary, and this mess could easily be avoided. Yet here they are, and Illya knows that even if he were to make the first move and offer what Solo wants, Solo would thoroughly reject him.

Well, let him seethe then. Illya doesn’t care. He makes Solo step out of his trousers and throws them carelessly on the sofa, reaches for Solo’s boxers and struggles not to roll his eyes at the way Solo’s body tenses – Solo does not like to attract attention to the soft curve of his belly and the numerous bullet scars on his thighs. Illya takes off the boxers and throws them atop of the trousers. Finished. Good job.

Illya hasn’t looked at Solo’s face the whole time, not even once, so as not to make it harder on him. He knows that his kindness has gone completely unappreciated. Solo is a damn difficult person.

Illya turns to Gaby again to see what she is going to tell him now – and that is familiar, good, a steady back-and-forth – only to find her close, perched on the armrest of the sofa, grinning and toweling her hair. She reaches over and takes his hand, squeezes him reassuringly and tells him to get some rest. She tells him he can sleep.

He would have stayed up and watched if Gaby told him to – frankly, it feels a bit dishonest to skip, she enjoys being watched and she has already given him an order to obey, Illya feels a bit like he’s withholding what he’s supposed to give – but he is grateful. It’s been a long day and he doesn’t want to be awake anymore.

Illya sits back down even as Gaby stands up, casually picking up the discarded tie, and leads Solo away. His cock is half-hard and his cheeks are flushed; he flashes her a grin and his posture is straight, confident. Illya doesn’t need to see Gaby’s face to know what she is thinking. He closes his eyes.

Illya doesn’t particularly want Solo, not in the way Solo wants him, but he is not averse to doing what Solo likes. They do what Gaby likes, what Illya likes; it is only fair, after all. But if Solo insists on being contrary, well.

That’s his problem. 

Illya falls asleep right there, fully clothed on the couch, legs stretched across the pile of Solo’s clothes. If Gaby and Solo make noise in the bedroom, it doesn’t disturb him at all.


	4. The Jovial Affairs (Humour, Waverly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Waverly is competent, dashing, and takes wagers about the accessibility of his dubious virtue in stride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Work is much more fun than fun." - Noel Coward

**I Expect the Cavalry**

Musing on the recent mishap involving his lovely chaps and boisterous wench unearthing a nasty piece of a mass destruction device from the recesses of the dastardly dungeons underneath the imposing but gaudy manor of an American millionaire in a manner most violent, Alexander Waverly took an inventory of the sizeable armoury that his UNCLE aircraft most fortuitously happened to possess before mounting an experimental compact hovercraft of great destructive capacity and, sitting astride this supreme feat of international engineering like a savage, proceeded to make a passionate bound for the premises where the three UNCLE agents were being currently kept for no doubt nefarious purposes. This came as a most unpleasant surprise to the decidedly unchivalrous American villain and his leather-clad mercenary troops, who did not expect aggravated assault to be committed on their persons by a recovered British addict past his apparent prime in the slightest; and so they were left scattered about in a most undignified manner, their vital signs discernible to very varied degrees, while Alexander Waverly promptly ascertained the pitiful extent of the damage done to his sturdy chaps and lass and proceeded to wave them out while suggesting, in a measured tone, that they relocate themselves to the awaiting helicopter pronto.

 

**II Flirting as a Sport**

It would have been hypocritical to a degree exceeding social acceptability to claim that Alexander Waverly had never been the object or an otherwise interested party of a dastardly wager such as the one Miss Gabrielle Teller and Mr Napoleon Solo had seen fit to make in pursuit of trivial excitement, and yet faced with an abruptly disclosed spectrum of Solo’s moderately sophisticated wiles, the Head of UNCLE still proceeded to experience a range of physical and mental sensations akin to indigestion prompted by oysters served out of season or a poorly translated Plato’s _Symposium_. Should one choose to articulate his response to the situation involving the sudden displays reminiscent of fine Indian peacocks in mating season more precisely, Alexander Waverly, his first emotion being that of surprise, and the second of resolute if decorously concealed astonishment, was compelled to open the gates of his soul to a sort of grim sadness which afflicted him whenever he was confronted by something by nature annoying, tediously persistent and not altogether unpredictable, like a fly in the beauty ointment, grains of sand in the salad – which turned the precious moments of lunch into insufferable eternity – or a pin sticking in one’s hip at an otherwise doubtless pleasing Savile Row establishment. However, as a man of character as firm and flexible as a Victoria sponge cake, Waverly resolved to make peace with his current predicament: sparing no effort to turn it into an occasion of purposefully blissful entertainment rather than furtive shame, he exercised just enough delicacy to temper Solo’s ebullient energy in the department of seduction – but certainly no more, for he was determined to keep the matter sufficiently indiscreet to be jovial, and sufficiently prudent to inspire nothing but boundless admiration for his strategic prowess as an old fox of the MI-5. Subsequently, Alexander Waverly succeeded in his endeavour beyond a shade of doubt, for that very same evening saw the brash American lad – who, despite being past the first blush of youth and lacking sublime sensibilities, was still as attractive and unchallenging to enjoy as a well-made dry martini – deep in the throes of delight which he had so copiously advertised to his direct superior hours earlier. The ensuing fortuitous activities, albeit sudden in the inexpert opinion of the aforementioned recklessly confident fellow, eventually secured the mutual satisfaction of everyone involved, as was invariably the case when Alexander Waverly took upon himself to perform exercises of libidinous nature.

 

**III Entirely Unsurprising**

Alexander Waverly happened to have enough astuteness for a dozen intelligence officers, which was the exact amount necessary if one intended to be an intelligence officer and survive the ordeal. Natural, necessary by-products of this quality included: cold eyes which invited his associates to engage in deep and uncomfortable introspection; sweet smiles dragging previously undetected secrets from the depths of anybody’s subconscious; an ability to prattle readily and easily, lulling the conversational opponent into a false sense of security, at the same time revealing nothing of actual importance to the other party; and a fascination with difference, diffidence, decadence and a myriad of other cultural phenomena, which, multiplied by pig-headedness and the kind of loyalty to the establishment that only came from privilege and a certain overeducated laziness of the mind, made him a perfect candidate to climb the career ladder at the Foreign Office provided he was not averse to some back-stabbing and throat-cutting, metaphorically and otherwise – which Alexander Waverly most certainly was _not_ averse to. Therefore, it came as absolutely no surprise to the limited number of people who concerned themselves with such things that Alexander Waverly rose to great prominence at MI-5, becoming as permanent and unavoidable as the eternal English drizzle and successfully overcoming such dreary personal difficulties as alcoholism and opium addiction – a common enough plague among anyone who was anything, and Waverly most definitely _was_ despite the unfortunate matter of a title which he had let slip through his hands, supposedly of his own accord. Despite his numerous and undeniable character flaws, or perhaps because of them, he was well-loved by subordinates who cared to stay alive long enough to be entitled to an opinion in the matter; and, through various vicissitudes of life and international intergovernmental conspiracies which brought about the mutually assured espionage disaster that was UNCLE, Gabrielle Teller, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo happened to be part of the exclusive club where folks chose to devote some time to singing Waverly’s accolades when the mood struck – indeed, they were the most distinguished members of this nebulous secret society for, whether sane or delusional, the three of them were genuinely convinced that there could be no better boss for agents such as themselves and acted accordingly, which was with great respect and in a manner unwaveringly constant: in short, remaining as steadfast and as sincere in their dealings with dearest Alexander Waverly, Head of United Command for Law and Enforcement, as was professionally appropriate under the circumstances.


	5. The Radical Affairs (Action, Waverly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Waverly considers the extent of his favour towards agent Kuryakin in Finland, and towards agent Solo in the Netherlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To know what you like is the beginning of wisdom and of old age." - Robert Louis Stevenson

**I Young and Beautiful**

Those who say that age is just a number frequently tend to be on the younger side of the invisible line between recklessness and rheumatism, or else happen to be endowed by a great many material possessions and liquid assets that facilitate their mundane existence and alleviate the woes that befall their frail bodies. 

To this day, Alexander Waverly flattered himself with being guilty on both accounts, prudently disposing of the good fortune that he was generously blessed with, both in the form of appealing muscle agility and solid British pounds. But as any other astute and cunning man, he naturally preferred the moral deterioration of character that occurred when one plotted and schemed behind a writing desk or with a flute of champagne in hand to the physical degradation of the body that occurred when one was being stabbed, shot at, and pursued on snowmobiles on a regular basis. The life of a field agent would simply not do for the likes of Alexander Waverly, born in the lap of luxury and privilege.

He did not, however, consider his reticence to court danger where it strutted, guns blazing, much of a character flaw. Particularly since he wined and dined with danger frequently enough when it wore masks of propriety, signed checks and passed bills in the Parliament.

And yet once in a blue moon a series of unfortunate events would make Alexander Waverly contemplate a hands-on demonstration of his reluctantly acquired combat skills, for to do otherwise would mean unsettling his own carefully crafted schemes, and that way lay madness and disgruntlement.

Such was the case of the Tampere affair, which eventually left Waverly’s Russian agent stranded on the outskirts of town and pursued by a large number of ruthless and highly trained KGB people who, due to a number of tedious diplomatic snags, temporarily considered him a dangerous rogue hurdle, subject to painful and drawn out termination.

Warm and chuffed in his hotel room in Helsinki, Waverly was fully absorbed in the mission report when Illya Kuryakin penetrated his thoughts with all the subtlety of a train speeding into a tunnel, which in turn prompted similarly heavy considerations of reasonable expense and collateral damage, and similarly penetrating musings on the transience of existence of international networks and indeed of all human beings, especially if they happened to be dismembered by a chain-saw in the line of duty.

Such thoughts were enough to put a damper on anyone’s mood, and so it is no wonder that the next two days happened to be obnoxiously oversaturated with such tiresome things as running about through the muck and firing pistols at close range, punching and pounding, and much of this grisly _let’s tap our local sleeper agents and spin a monstrous web of lies and betrayal that will spell imminent death and awful suffering to a great number of foreign intelligence operatives, shall we?_ business that was horrifying enough to make the other party backtrack on their Kuryakin-dismembering plans and that Waverly just happened to be so very good at due to the nature of his splendid but atrocious career.

In the aftermath, Waverly left Finland with a nasty gash on his arm, a bad case of cold, and significantly cooled relations with his KGB-related friends for the time being. But he also left Finland with Illya Kuryakin in one piece, which kind of balanced things out a bit.

 

**II Silent and Deadly**

Sometimes one’s leisure was thoroughly occupied with simple, pleasurable, innocent things, like a good night’s sleep on soft sheets, an indubitably delicious five-course dinner or a glass of 1947 Dom Pérignon vintage. But while Alexander Waverly happened to frequently devote his time to such gratifying experiences (save for the latter, at least in recent years), it would not occur to anyone to besmirch his reputation by casting accusations of innocence, for a man so thoroughly concerned with the permanence of British interests and the transience of the obscure political landscape at the Foreign Office and beyond could not be anything but shrewd and endlessly cunning. 

Indeed, his carefully cultivated air of disenchantment and ennui was a testament to how well he knew the vicious art of navigating the deep waters of intelligence and counter-intelligence, while his casual elegance and affable manner – so sophisticated they could not but betray the great treasure-troves of privilege buried at the root of his distinguished family tree – both served, without fail, as his impenetrable armour and infallible weapons in battles with Members of Parliament and high-ranking officials of foreign agencies alike. By virtue of his position, contacts, and the natural unscrupulousness of his character, Alexander Waverly disposed of valuable resources and potentially damaging information, which he did not hesitate to wield in order to improve his personal circumstances and for the sake of strengthening the system to which he belonged.

Given that he was a man of such temperament, it was perhaps a tad surprising that Alexander Waverly had taken a instant liking to CIA agent Napoleon Solo, for an observant eye was bound to discern too many similarities between the two to warrant that appreciation be espoused by the one of superior standing – that is, Waverly. Frequently enough, men with power do not enjoy it when their own traits are brought in sharp relief by another person in their immediate circle, like a funhouse mirror. In this case, Solo was a study in ruthlessness and hedonism, egotism and hunger: in short, his very demeanour was showcasing everything that had made Waverly justly reviled and morbidly adored by many.

And yet somehow neither resentment nor displeasure had taken root in Waverly’s heart during the joint Italian job with the KGB and the CIA. Moreover, he proceeded to include the – allegedly – most effective agent of their American friendly foes in his plans for the United Command for Law and Enforcement, a newly minted tool to expand Waverly’s personal influence in the endlessly macabre world of espionage and to safeguard the international terrain for the continued games of global superpowers. He did not particularly regret the decision, even though Napoleon Solo’s numerous foibles often presented Waverly with opportunities to do so.

Such was the case of the Utrecht affair, when Alexander Waverly was forced to exploit his skill and wit, and the competence of the agents of Her Majesty’s Secret Service planted in minor positions at the embassy and in trade organisations. A string of missteps and misunderstandings had made things quite heated at The Hague, not least because of Solo’s soured relationships with some of his erstwhile partners in crime – a number of well-off and well-forgotten Dutch collaborationists. Moreover, the mission demanded they make contact with the US Consulate in Amsterdam, which, due to a woeful oversight in UNCLE reconnaissance material, led to Solo’s reunion with a man who used to be his LT in 1946. That, too, created an additional difficulty for Waverly’s plans to swiftly liberate several valuable documents, and it was most unfortunate.

Two things became apparent. Firstly, that while keeping relatively silent on the subject, Solo was obviously exhausted by these unforeseen circumstances to the point of lamentable inefficiency. And secondly, that for all that watching another man’s anger, regret, jealousy and an altogether complex turmoil of long-suppressed emotions from one’s misspent youth was less tedious than suffering through such emotional gymnastics personally, it still constituted sufficient grounds for second-hand embarrassment, one that Waverly found rather disagreeable. In the absence of such outlets as alcohol, opiates or sublime verbal cruelty that could be duly appreciated by an audience as educated and malignant as Waverly himself happened to be, the escalating situation gave the Head of UNCLE migraines and indigestion.

It was not to be borne.

Having been forced to dig through the muck, metaphorical and otherwise, and to spend sleepless nights engaged in covert negotiations with persons of interest in Maastricht, just to avoid sacrificing the hide of his hot-headed American asset for the mission, Alexander Waverly could not help wondering if Solo was really worth all the trouble. 

And yet afterwards, when Miss Teller was driving them both from Utrecht, the necessary papers finally in Waverly’s possession and the entire escapade about to be put behind them, Waverly was forced to admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that he did not regret the abundant inconveniences in the slightest. Solo was slumped beside him in the backseat of the car: slightly bleeding, slightly battered, his skin sallow. Of course, vitriolic episodes and lack of sleep did not agree with anyone’s complexion, even when it came to such sturdy, healthy, relatively young men as Solo.

But oh, he was still quite handsome even though he was no longer fresh or delicate. Perhaps he never had been – in the midst of all the diplomatic tensions that had resembled the snarling of rabid bulldogs, Waverly hadn’t had the occasion to ask his former CO about Solo in his younger days. Indeed, thought Waverly, watching a dark lock fall across Solo’s lined forehead, it did not matter much what relationships Solo had had in the beginning of his career, when he had enlisted – at sixteen or eighteen; it was hard to determine which sources had been correct. Waverly already had facts and psychological insights at his disposal; additional information would have been merely superfluous, since Solo’s exploits, his errors and transgressions, were documented; his traits of character, all his tendencies to violence, anxiety and attachment, were plainly visible to the naked eye of someone as perceptive and worldly as Alexander Waverly. Therefore, he already had infinite leverage – an understanding of subtle influence points and more than enough material for crude blackmail, if need be.

The past doubtless mattered in their world, but Waverly had a fairly firm grasp on the past, and could honestly claim to know it better than most; besides, the past did not matter more than the present, and in the present, Solo was an UNCLE agent, letting go of himself to fall into a fitful slumber in the back of a speeding car, his head resting against Waverly’s outstretched arm – an unequivocal if subconscious show of trust for his current master and commander. It was easy to run fingers through gelled strands matted with sweat, to touch tender, cool skin underneath, and to ponder the fact that, for all his flaws, Solo was still a precious acquisition, a useful human instrument which happened to be efficient and aesthetically pleasing. In the present, for all intents and purposes, Solo belonged to Waverly.

It was a keen, almost palpitating pleasure to pet Solo’s head while he was sound asleep, one that was only highlighted by strategic meditations about the rise of UNCLE following their success in the Netherlands, and Alexander Waverly did not deny himself this almost innocent delight for the entire duration of their drive to Rotterdam, where Kuryakin was already waiting with the jet.


	6. The Serendipitous Affairs (Romance, Waverly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Waverly always puts British interests first (which, incidentally, means Miss Teller’s and his own).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The greatest artist does not have any concept which a single piece of marble does not contain within its excess, though only a hand that obeys the intellect can discover it." - Michelangelo Buonarotti (Poem 151 in Christopher Ryan's translation)

**I Veni, vidi, vici**

Composing a team of an experienced and dubiously reliable CIA agent, an experienced and undoubtedly volatile KGB agent, and an inexperienced MI6 recruit of unascertained ideological preparation could be considered risky business by many a man, but Alexander Waverly opined that reasonable concerns were tedious and flippant paranoia was odious. 

_Veni, vidi, vici,_ he thought, wiping his long fingers on a napkin after consuming a particularly scrumptious sandwich and thumbing open the files on Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, his mind promptly conceiving of a nifty plan of international cooperation that befit the vertiginous challenges of the new, ruthlessly radioactive age.

 _Per aspera ad astra_ , thought Alexander Waverly, stoically observing the scurrilous attacks against each other’s character that the prized horses he had snatched from the CIA and the KGB proceeded to engage in once Waverly had securely placed them in his own stable, christened UNCLE in a fit of inspired ingenuity verging on bloodless cruelty, if one went by the radical contortions that Miss Teller’s face went through the first time Waverly had unveiled the acronym to her.

Alexander Waverly would hazard a guess that a man of a different disposition would find his agents’ personal squabbles, or indeed, any sort of personal matter pertaining to the realm of human resources, to be dull and monotonous in the extreme, and of little consequence to their proficiency in dealing with uranium, toxins, and bombs. Alexander Waverly, however, was a horse of another colour, and he made it a point of pride to take an interest in what might be called ’private affairs’, if privacy existed for people whose occupation amounted to espionage. Therefore, he kept his eyes and ears open, and the surveillance cameras and listening devices finely tuned, in order to be ahead of the game regardless of its nature – be it a semi-friendly chess match, an impromptu sparring session, or willy-nilly dalliances.

A vague concern, akin to the buzzing of an obnoxious insect on an interminable, dull summer day in the countryside, became Alexander Waverly’s constant companion. Comfortably ensconced in the well-equipped headquarters of UNCLE, he weighed all the _pro et contra_ of Miss Teller becoming romantically dependent on the constancy of affections bestowed by his KGB acquisition, or by his CIA acquisition, or both, and concluded that such a development would be detrimental to the future professional growth and psychological stability of his East German prodigy, which in turn could have a potentially disastrous effect on world peace, and more importantly, on Britain’s role in ensuring it. 

_Homo proponit, sed deus disponit_ , mused Alexander Waverly and, though fully aware that the tedious and tawdry affair might be imminent in the future, proceeded to devote a considerable amount of his valuable time to the pursuit of a solution to the predicament that he deemed to be the true sword of Damocles endangering the sustainability of UNCLE operations.

But a fortuitous insight suggested the preferred course of action: the semi-reluctant feud between Solo and Kuryakin, that on most days reminded the aggravated sniping of two ageing demi-mondaines, also bore an incongruous resemblance to a lovers’ spat, and this was an avenue that merited further exploration.

And indeed, a series of strategically devised mission plans and training sessions yielded spectacular results well ahead of the established timeframe, and the mutual indiscretions between Solo and Kuryakin culminated in professions of undying affection in both word and deed. The two of them now painted a disgustingly happy picture of tooth-rotting domesticity and relative monogamy, enjoying the steadfast and enthusiastic benedictions of Miss Teller. Her inherent decency would not allow her to contemplate prompting any disruptions to her colleagues’ unexpected bliss, thus achieving the effect that Alexander Waverly desired in the first place and above all: to safeguard her from a greater degree of involvement with either Solo or Kuryakin, in a passionate sense.

_Veni, vidi, vici._

 

**II Finis coronat opus**

Managing an international espionage network in full view of the whole world – which was, incidentally, filled with other, national espionage networks and heads thereof, all harbouring unkind sentiments towards UNCLE and its _modus operandi_ of sabotaging their world domination plans, even if they themselves financed its existence for the perverse joy of thwarting the plans of their enemies and competitors – managing the aforementioned network, otherwise known as UNCLE, happened to be an exhausting and tedious affair that kept Alexander Waverly in a nearly permanent state of harried disgruntlement. 

_Vivere militare est,_ he repeated to himself with maudlin fatigue and occasionally dared to look, albeit half-heartedly and askance, for a source of joy in his incessantly complicated life, but his daring was not suitably rewarded, because he still saw nothing but mahogany desks, manila folders and crooked paperclips. From dawn till dusk, Waverly’s hands were full of dossiers and reports, and his mind was occupied by mission briefs and stratagems: in short, he struggled to apply the magnificent principle _vive ut vivas_ to himself even though he routinely inspired, with invariable success, his subordinates – be they disposable or otherwise – to live to the fullest for as long as they so serendipitously happened to be alive. One never knew these days, what with bombs, missiles, and DDT.

Waverly’s morose moods persisted despite the increasingly cheerful motivational speeches he regularly delivered to his own reflection in the mirror, and the situation left him altogether as upset as a prize pig forced to part with its country fair ribbon without being offered the consolation of frolicking in the muck. Indeed, things might have taken a most unfortunate turn had fate not deigned to lay bare the infinite wisdom of the saying _verba docent exempla trahunt_ , for the nauseatingly trivial and embarrassingly licentious displays of the steadfast affection between agents Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, despite being vastly inappropriate for the workplace and occasionally too risqué even for infiltrating decadent clubs for aficionados of libidinous pursuits, succeeded to demonstrate the health benefits of seizing the day and profiting from romantic attachments, preferably mutual.

Therefore, Alexander Waverly sagely reminded himself that _vita summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam_ and proceeded, without further delay, to bestow his fondness on the doubtless worthiest subject in his immediate vicinity, or indeed in the entire Secret Service of Her Majesty, as far as he was concerned; namely, on one Miss Gabrielle Teller, who happened to be a most worthy young lady of enviable ambition and considerable cleverness. Moreover, since _veritas odit moras_ , he wasted no time in announcing the existence of such fondness in no uncertain terms to Miss Teller herself, and, interestingly enough, did not surprise her in the slightest with his unsolicited declaration, for this doubtless extraordinary and vertiginously dazzling woman was absolutely convinced of her superiority compared to even the most remarkable specimen of either sex, and was therefore inclined to accept Waverly’s admiration as her due. 

Invigorated by such turn of events, Alexander Waverly acted with utmost diligence and great creativity in order to prove himself to be a sufficiently challenging and pleasing companion for an ingenious young person of notable appetites and varied interests, sparing no effort in his courtship of Miss Teller, who swiftly outgrew the small place she had previously occupied in his heart, that of a trusted protégée and possible eventual deputy, and proceeded to reign therein as the most gorgeous and undisputed queen and siren.

Both Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin insisted that they had long suspected such a development, and while it was, clearly, _vaticinium ex eventu_ , neither Alexander Waverly nor his most precious Miss Teller could quite muster the energy to express indignation when faced with such shameless lies. By tacit agreement, they allowed the two agents to cling to their haughty delusions of insight and paid no mind to their increasingly inappropriate ribbing up until the moment Waverly was to depart, in the delightful company of Miss Teller, to establish a new UNCLE hub in Kuala Lumpur, and it was only just when the aircraft’s door was about to close and conceal them from view that the two of them saw fit to regale Solo and Kuryakin with matching vulgar gestures that expressed, albeit humorously, their attitude towards the matter.

_Finis coronat opus._


	7. The Cardinal Affairs (Adventure, Waverly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Waverly observes, deduces, and deals with unpleasantness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "For a ruler, it is necessary, if he wants to stay ruler, to learn how not to be good and to use this power, or not, according to need." - Niccolò Machiavelli

**I Observation and Deduction**

Following the unpleasant business in Cyprus, when Waverly’s three newly minted UNCLE agents found themselves in dire straits indeed, a personal and very thorough debriefing appeared to be the only acceptable course of action in order to identify all the liabilities and take note of the weaknesses for the future. But the dynamic trio had little regard for the intricacies of procedure as they alternately mumbled and mouthed off with lazy tongues, nodding off despite being fresh off the direct flight where they might have snatched at least a few hours of sleep as prudence suggested. Miss Teller had the temerity to roll her eyes and stifle a yawn with her little fist while Illya Kuryakin droned on about Greek explosives.

As soon as Waverly verbally acknowledged that no new information would be forthcoming from the pouting mouths and sleep-deprived brains of his agents, Solo grasped Kuryakin’s forearm with an uncouth hand and dragged him out of the briefing room, piercing the air with a jolly whistle as he executed the aforementioned exit strategy.

Less than a month later Waverly found himself lounging on board of a cruise ship in the Caribbean, mingling with the idlest of the idle and indulging in discreet observation of his assets, namely, Napoleon Solo playing an American carpet-selling tycoon with the kind of vulgarity and impudence that made him breathtakingly convincing, and Gaby Teller hanging on his arm in the role of a Swiss chemist turned trophy wife. All for the sole purpose of attracting the attention of nefariously minded financiers who might be interested in snatching away a brilliant chemist languishing from boredom in a gilded cage for their world-dominating and life-destroying purposes.

It was all well and good, and the job went without a hitch, unfolding in front of Waverly’s eyes in the course of the cruise like the events of some undiscovered Agatha Christie novel. Besides, Illya Kuryakin emerging from the swimming pool in a pair of fashionably fitted swim trunks made for a pleasant sight for the entire duration of the journey.

Waverly’s suspicions were confirmed a few weeks later, just before he dispatched his temperamental but dutiful agents to Casablanca. The recently expanded technical division of UNCLE had fitted the domiciles of the agents with surveillance devices, in part for successful protection of agents’ lives but mostly – callousness and honesty had to go hand in hand here – for successful protection of UNCLE secrets. In his executive capacity, Waverly acquainted himself with the status reports on his most valuable loans, whom he privately considered his rightful property and did not intend to relinquish to the KGB, the CIA, or indeed to his own friends from MI-6 any time soon. The dry and succinct accounts of the comings and goings of Gaby Teller, Napoleon Solo, and Illya Kuryakin, and the manner in which they chose to spend their off-duty hours under the invisible but watchful eyes of highly sensitive cameras left no room for misinterpretation of the nature of the physical aspect of their relationship.

The emotional component was something that a person of Waverly’s age and worldliness could deduce for himself.

 

**II Expression and Verbalisation**

While far from flourishing as an establishment, the UNCLE agency was in confident though relatively modest bloom following a series of fortuitous innovations and daring developments that took place under the shrewd guidance of its founder and leader, Alexander Waverly. Emboldened by the indubitable success of the agents he had previously snatched from the CIA, the KGB, and his own dear chaps from Her Majesty’s Secret Service, he proceeded to extend the curious tentacles of his genius and to acquire quite a few rough diamonds from other intelligence agencies, including but not limited to the Mossad, the Mukhabarat, and even the Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City. And while this ragtag bunch of operatives routinely demanded that he flex his intellectual muscles and hone his management, manipulation, and communication skills, few required as much energy as the three feisty persons whom Waverly had originally picked to test his cutting edge concoction of diplomatic tools and espionage tradecraft.

For instance, it was with no small amount of fascination that Alexander Waverly noted the fact that, usually, he perceived Mr Solo’s demeanour as that of a man of unrepentant impudence despite the fact that he was rarely insubordinate beyond tart remarks and imperiously vivid facial expressions, while Mr Kuryakin seemed to emit a constant aura of compliance and diligence even though, out of the two of them, it was the Soviet agent who was more inclined to ignore direct orders and improvise in the most brutal and obscene manner, fiendishly disguising his disregard for instructions with abundant and seemingly sincere assurances of honest error, necessity, and misinterpretation. Even such a seasoned scholar of hypocrisy as Waverly found that his mind quite boggled.

Discreetly accompanying his original unit to Singapore for purposes of observation and much needed control, Waverly oscillated between seizures of parental tenderness, prompted by the endless sea of genuine if carefully disguised affection that seemed to stretch between Miss Teller, Mr Kuryakin, and Mr Solo when they naively fancied themselves out of reach of UNCLE surveillance, and equally blind-siding – and similarly suppressed – episodes of rage. The aforementioned rage was, of course, due to the fact that Mr Kuryakin continuously violated Waverly’s meticulously crafted instructions regarding the infiltration of a local newspaper. The dubious prudence of said violations, which occasionally served to safeguard valuable resources, such as Miss Teller’s life, was, in Waverly’s expert opinion, outweighed by the fact that they set a horrible example and rapidly turned Miss Teller herself – an erstwhile paragon of cold calculation and obedience – into a dangerously volatile creature.

It was an altogether trying experience, one that thoroughly exposed the delicate nerves of Waverly’s soul – alas, that only made it easier for Mr Solo to trample upon these precious nerves during their next assignment in Kyoto, when the American agent failed to appreciate the sinister manner in which Waverly steepled his fingers and twiddled his thumbs during their briefing, and showed no hesitation in exercising unauthorised modifications to the mission plan the moment a scandalously feeble spectre of danger began to hover over Mr Kuryakin’s shoulder. Waverly cared not about such vulgar things as money, the cost of crashed motorcycles, wasted explosives, and numerous bribes to the Japanese officials – but he cared about the unplanned escalation of hostilities. He certainly cared about control, which, he was saddened to admit, had been irrevocably slipping out of his hands due to the fact that the three agents were getting increasingly skilled in the language of love while carelessly forgetting the language of sanity. 

The following month, a most unfortunate episode in Lahore thoroughly proved that passionate personal attachments were bound to precipitate a sharp crisis.

The fallout was undiluted unpleasantness. A man of many cultural accomplishments, Waverly was fluent in Hindi and Farsi, Mandarin and Swahili, and yet he found himself briefly incapable of speech when faced with such drastic insolence. His mastery of the Russian language, and of the bastardised tongue that the Americans coincidentally called English, utterly failed him, and Waverly was forced to resort to German invective to convey the full extent of his justified displeasure. However, judging by the unabashed visages of Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin, a few crucial points were lost in Miss Teller’s translation.

No longer baffled by the mixture of gall and insouciance that had replaced all other attitudes in the repertoire of the first UNCLE agents, Waverly stoically accepted that he had no other choice but to send them away with a reprimand and await the inevitable. Personal liaisons among co-workers, just like keen cordiality and unhealthy regard among international spies, were hazardous. A handler of Waverly’s age and worldliness could not help seeing that Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin, and Miss Teller were careening towards a dastardly end, and, although none of them had yet died or erred to an extent that would require discreet yet swift execution, he mentally said good-bye to the trio and turned his eye to other international recruits who might be groomed into a unit of excellence.

As they say, better luck next time.


	8. The Incidental Affairs (Slice-of-life, Waverly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy accidents do happen, at least when Alexander Waverly makes sure that they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is criminal to steal a purse, daring to steal a fortune, a mark of greatness to steal a crown. The blame diminishes as the guilt increases." - Friedrich Schiller

Few things perturbed the precious serenity of Alexander Waverly as much as the continuous well-being of his ragtag bunch of agents, three in number. 

Miss Teller, Mr Kuryakin and Mr Solo were the three he had, and therefore his three best. Alexander Waverly was very much inclined to foster cordial relationships with and among his current cream of the crop. Nasty business like defection, treason, and redistribution of assets were foremost on his well-educated mind. 

To discourage any kind of such nonsense, he dutifully persevered in creating most advantageous conditions for his delicate little flowers to bloom and prosper without a care for the cruel vicissitudes of life (apart from war, coups, and nuclear weapons, which all came with the job). This included comfortable and well-equipped safe-houses, luxurious regular lodgings, fine dining, high wages (and equal pay, of course), cutting edge gadgets, and a multitude of leisure opportunities. 

In Alexander Waverly’s opinion, it was reasonable to conflate the latter with recreational sexual activity, which was why he proceeded with routinely spicing up the regular flow of their missions by arranging for such mischievous misadventures as booking honeymoon suites, delivering delicious bottles of bubbly to their tables or rooms, or tables _and_ rooms, mixing up the luggage of the lady and the two gentlemen in a great number of combinations, and other things that might lead to a good frolic on the nearest available surface.

Waverly’s experience in running covert operations and harvesting intelligence being what it was, it should come as absolutely no surprise that his roguish schemes invariably amounted to great success, thus ensuring that continuous and enthusiastic copulation took place among Miss Teller, Mr Kuryakin and Mr Solo at every available opportunity. And the aforementioned opportunities, being great in number and high in quality, did wonders to alleviate the burden of Mr Waverly’s worry concerning possible information leaks, defections, and grievous harm, for few things sustained the spirit of international cooperation as making love, and not war, together.


	9. The Ardent Affairs (Romance, Illya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya Kuryakin becomes involved with Gaby Teller and Napoleon Solo in a way that suits his inclinations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls." - Khalil Gibran

**I flames grow higher**

The cobblestones are strewn with dirt and old houses seem to be closing up on them from both sides. Perhaps their car is too showy for stakeout, perhaps Gaby and Illya have given themselves away somehow. Or maybe it’s just bad luck. But it’s clear that they have attracted unwanted attention and Illya’s thoughts are too sluggish, refusing to move past the comparison of being pinned like butterflies to the wall, of being trapped like flies in a glass. 

He hasn’t slept in sixty hours, since Denmark. He should have let Solo go with Gaby instead.

He takes a deep breath and turns to Gaby, complying with a command he wouldn’t be able to hear over the rush of blood in his ears even if Gaby were to speak instead of swiftly pulling off her pastel shirtdress. He forcibly unclenches his fingers and lets go of the wheel – Illya is in the driver’s seat this time and that, too, is strange, unfamiliar, unnatural, just like Gaby crawling into his lap and holding onto his belt. There is nothing sensual about their closeness and it makes Illya deeply uncomfortable.

If they are discovered, he will not be uncomfortable for long. He will be dead, and he will feel nothing.

Illya closes his eyes in a futile attempt to shield himself from the vast expanse of warm, sun-kissed skin, from hair spilling into his face and smelling heavily of hairspray and perfume. Voluntarily blind, he picks up the sound of footfalls outside, the squeak of tires on the street – and, painfully close to his own chest, the ruthless beat of Gaby’s heart. Her body inexorably invades his personal space, and he follows her cue, obeys the mission imperative, holds her compact, strong flesh in his arms. 

His gun-calloused fingers absent-mindedly trace the outline of lower vertebrae, up to the rough stretch of synthetic lace that Gaby’s bra is made of. Illya can tell that it’s impractical, ridiculous, and uncomfortable to wear. Very different from Soviet underwear – practical, pure function, and just as ridiculous. Time stretches tight and Illya’s fingers almost tremble. He’d rather be anywhere but here. His eyelids sting as if burnt.

It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t feel anything.

It means nothing, nothing at all.

Illya refuses to be conscious of anything but their surroundings, the muted traffic noises, the stench of human squalor and gasoline that creeps inside. He feels rather than hears a shift in the intensity of presence, and realizes that the two men who’ve ambled towards their car are leaving.

Gaby’s hand is hot on his flank even through two layers of cotton, shirt and undershirt. Her grip is hard, painful, and because of that, immediately soothing.

Illya blinks and looks through her tousled tresses – improvised camouflage – and watches the Pontiac shimmer down the dusty street. 

They were right after all. The abrupt spike of sharp satisfaction makes Illya hot all over.

 

**II turn me into ashes**

The room smells strongly of wine and exotic flowers, and expensive men’s cologne. An exquisite arrangement of orchids is on the mantelpiece, irises and freesias are on the table. The floor and the bed are strewn with roses, red and white. The fireplace is cold and dead, but there’s merry laughter and the sharp cracking sound of skin slapping against skin to evoke a different kind of flame, the one that burns between two people.

Or in this case, three.

Illya steps into the room, silent and steady, and goes breathless like he always does when they play this game. And they play it often, a teasing dance of make-believe: first him and Gaby Teller pretending to be newly-weds in the Netherlands, fiancés in Finland, an unmarried couple in Denmark and husband and wife in Poland, and then Gaby and Napoleon Solo slipping away together, a titillation meant for one man – Illya. 

Gaby and Napoleon play at being lovers and it’s trite, trashy, terribly bourgeois that Illya gets off on it, on the fake pangs of jealousy and humiliation as he watches the woman who is not really his sit astride the man who is not really his rival. Illya’s cock is rigid as he watches Gaby ride Napoleon: her face is open and wanton and her harsh breaths punctuate the air as she drives Napoleon in and out of her cunt with sharp movements of her hips while Napoleon licks his lips and diddles her clit. His chest is firm and wide, and Gaby rakes her nails over his nipples mercilessly. 

Napoleon swears, gasps, looks Illya dead in the eye. Illya’s head is spinning from desire, bright hot with anger and denial. It’s terrible and sweet.

Illya stays very still, propping himself up against the cool mantelpiece, and watches Gaby’s genuine delight and her genius performance. His ears are hot and probably red as he listens to her raspy delivery of the perfectly bawdy lines that Napoleon has no doubt come up with earlier – a scathing rant about how weak and impotent Illya is, how useless and plain; how pitiful he is as a lover, less than able and dumb in bed, utterly unsatisfying as a man. 

And never mind that they have never actually done it, that the real Illya has never had intercourse with the real Gaby and there’s no basis for comparison, because this is better, a sharp thrill and an exquisite rush. Illya’s cock is tenting his trousers suggestively, a wet patch spreading across his crotch while Gaby snarls obscenities and Napoleon laughs, while both of them laugh at him, promise that if Illya is a good boy they’ll let Illya lick Gaby’s thighs and the lips of her cunt clean after she comes, after Napoleon comes inside her, after she’s filthy and leaking with how much he’s come inside her. 

And never mind that Gaby and Napoleon never ever actually have sex without a condom, never mind that Gaby is always oversensitive after orgasm and only wants to nap, no touching allowed. 

Never mind that Napoleon cannot keep a straight face and stay in character, eyes darting between Gaby and Illya, clearly bright with desire no matter who he’s looking at. Never mind that his insults are vulgar and imaginative but the illusion of him hatefully lording his power and privilege over Illya is weak.

The fire of ecstasy that sweeps through Illya is strong and hot, leaving him dizzy and weak in the knees while Gaby keeps riding Napoleon, moaning and leaning forward to pull his mouth to hers. 

It’s a cruel game. It feels terrible and terribly pleasurable. 

It’s the greatest kindness that anyone has ever given Illya.

 

**III what good is there denying**

Despite the early morning hour, the safe-house is already flooded with bright summer light when Illya wakes up. He hauls himself out of bed and goes to fetch a glass of water. His gait starts off crooked and unsteady with sleep, like a bear’s, but turns into a smooth stride by the time he reaches the kitchen. All the while, the linoleum floor is sticking uncomfortably to the bare soles of Illya’s feet.

Save for the screaming light, nothing has changed in the kitchen since the evening. Hunched over a rickety table strewn with utensils, lock picks and hair pins, Napoleon still fiddles with a set of latches – for practice, as he claims. 

Illya wonders, occasionally, how many hours Napoleon had to put into honing the skill. He doesn’t have the fingers of a thief. His hands are more suited to a dock worker: square, with broad palms and thick fingers. They absolutely lack the fine, fluid grace that betrays a natural pickpocket, or a piano player, or a violinist.

They aren’t musical fingers, and yet they steadily keep up their smooth, expert movements when Napoleon darts a glance at Illya and sees him naked.

Curiously, Napoleon’s face shows no scorn or apprehension. He doesn’t scowl or roll his eyes; instead, his features sharpen and arrange themselves in a teasing expression, all vapid, insincere playfulness. Between one moment and the next, Napoleon is no longer a thief during downtime but a vaudeville actor on stage. He fumbles a tiny mechanism squeezed between his thumb and forefinger with the look of a man who’d rather break into a tawdry song and taunt Illya mercilessly.

It’s all an act, and not a particularly good one.

Napoleon does not blush but Illya can tell that it costs him, that the playful, casual smirk and studious concentration on the latches is a ruse. Napoleon forces himself to give an expected reaction, one that is part of his perpetual confidence trick. A lot of things that were ingrained in him – shame, and vexing prudishness, and aspirations towards breathless, petty reticence of petite bourgeoisie, and rowdy violence as ubiquitous cover-up of stirrings of gentler emotion – are things that Napoleon has chosen to relinquish, cultivating different responses. Right now, he is once again affecting something he does not feel. 

He only wishes he were unconcerned and as appreciative of Illya’s naked body as one is of a slab of good meat. 

Feeling strangely calm, and strangely well-rested, Illya pours himself a glass of tepid water from the pot on the stove. He hears how Napoleon shifts a little on the stool, and feels Napoleon’s gaze slide down Illya’s back and along his legs, leaving a phantom sensation of sticky warmth.

Illya doesn’t mind, not at all. There’s a simple pleasure to it, to being admired for something as raw and uncomplicated as one’s physical form.

They will be swapping watches now, and Illya will wipe Napoleon’s mess from the table while Napoleon will go to sleep, taking the still-warm narrow bed that Illya has just vacated. They only have one bed, and for all that Napoleon laughed and made half-hearted off-color remarks when they moved in, it obviously bothers him.

When they first arrived at the safe-house, Illya was feeling kind and generously said the expected lines, something like, _You are terribly spoilt, Cowboy_ or _Indeed, this is not the Ritz, your usual_. Like an actor in a gauche play. It had smoothed Napoleon’s ruffled feathers a little, but now, Illya doesn’t bother, just stands with his back turned and drinks his fill while Napoleon evens his breathing and smothers his embarrassment – which Napoleon hates – and desire – which Napoleon does not act on. 

And while Illya is grateful for the latter, he is not so naïve as to read too much selflessness into Napoleon’s behavior.

It may be a little cruel, but he fancies that Napoleon draws as much pleasure from violently suppressing his frustration as Illya does from prompting it. 

It’s like different notes constituting the same chord.


	10. The Intimate Affairs (Slice-of-life, Illya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuryakin learns, Teller manages, and Solo adjusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There are things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

**ITALY**

Illya wipes his hands on his trousers, careless of the fact that he is working the dirt in. The fabric is thick enough. His entire wardrobe is thick enough, tough enough, durable, made to last. He pulls a mostly white handkerchief out of his pocket and gives it to Gaby so that she may clean herself up some more. Hovering, Illya steals a glance at Solo sitting next to her, tight-lipped and tense, looking a good ten years older than his official dossier claims that he is – a good deal closer to his actual age, that is. 

Picking up Gaby’s discarded handkerchiefs – balled up and filthy, a handful of tokens from Solo, Waverly, pilot and crew – Illya steps away and takes a seat. His breaths are even, his heart is a metronome; his movements are confident and controlled even as he begins shaking out the stained squares of fabric and re-folding them neatly. The inside of his head is soft like cotton balls. Everything his eyes focus on is bright and sharp. He is present. Everything is in stark relief against the murky, milky quality of ’before’ and ’maybe’.

Illya has been made resilient. Thick-skinned.

Killing in combat is always easier for overall performance. It doesn’t throw Illya for a loop like poisoning, or arson, or fiddling with someone’s car engine might. Close combat is even preferable; it is nothing like a sniper’s work, no need to catch that tiny space between breaths, between heartbeats, between ’maybe’ and ’definitely’ – everything is a steady thrum of ’yes’, a blur of ’now’. Illya is suited to close combat. Large, strong, but quick enough. He folds an unsalvageable silk handkerchief into a neat square. His fingers appear incongruously enormous against it. This one must be Waverly’s.

Illya checks his own breathing and judges it a tad too shallow. Deeper breaths, more oxygen; he needs to be ready to go again soon enough. Not so deep as to be loud, not so deep as to have his nostrils invaded with the heavy scent of Gaby’s fragrance. But deep enough, a steady expansion of his ribcage. He catches a bit of Solo’s stale sweat and bitter perfume, an unexpectedly intimate presence that he bears unflinchingly. Another handkerchief folded. Solo whispers softly in Gaby’s ear, holds her hand. Everyone is accounted for, a short respite before the next start.

Killing in close proximity is easier. Illya darts a look at the two of them huddled close together, CIA and MI5 - or is it MI6? Waverly might be obfuscating. Illya’s hands are automatically keeping up with their task. His peripheral vision catches everything: the pilot’s head movement as Waverly slips in, raised veins in Solo’s forearms, a chipped painted nail on Gaby’s thumb. Dirt and blood under his own fingernails, and smooth fine lines of it along his cuticles, too. He folds the last piece of cloth, gentle. He watches the pair of them through his eyelashes. Thick as thieves.

Killing in close proximity is different. A knife meeting resistance, pushing through; wetness. Fingers closing around a throat, friction and slide; squeeze. Noise. There is never much noise because Illya does not make noise. That would be inefficient, unprofessional. He was trained out of letting them make noise.

He holds the stack of handkerchiefs in his lap, controlling his breathing and forcing his fingers to relax. Hands next, then shoulders. He doesn’t roll them, just lets them loosen gradually. Closes his eyes. There may be a certain challenge in killing with your own hands, but in moments like these, more aware than alert, Illya is not afraid to admit to himself that he actually prefers it. It is more honest.

Slipping into sleep, Illya thinks that if he ever has to kill any of them, Solo or Gaby, he should do it like that. Up close. Intimate. It’s what friends deserve.

Anything less would feel terribly unfair.

 

**TURKEY**

Solo has brought the brief and thrown it at Illya with some snide remark, hinting at the Americans’ intelligence network and his contacts from art thief days. That is bothersome, since Solo’s hints probably mean that neither is true, and that means that Illya must be thinking about what other sources might be at play, whom Solo or his handler might be tapping for information in Istanbul. But the heat is licking at Illya’s spine, breathing down his neck, clogging his nostrils. His limbs grow heavy and he is no longer reading the brief. 

Instead, he watches Gaby apply a thick layer of neon shadow to her swollen eyelids, put on eyeliner, then glue long, heavy lashes over the jet black line. Solo is sitting on top of her vanity, feet crossed at the ankle, and toying with a wig while Gaby browses through a selection of scarves. The heat has made her sluggish, too. Solo has been sweating profusely and drinking what seems like his own weight in water to compensate. He also has been changing shirts every couple hours, which, according to Illya’s estimates, means that he is going to run out of shirts tomorrow. Illya might be on the brink of having some ideas – hazy, lazy, sweet – about what this might mean, and about Solo borrowing his shirts, but the thoughts are unbidden, unwelcome, and they vanish in the heat like smoke. Blood rushes to his face.

If he plans for it, it will become an eventuality, one that Illya can and must deal with. Spontaneity is abhorrent and hints are a nuisance. Despite knowing what happens when he neglects to plan for everything, Illya lets it slide for now and just keeps watching.

He has planned for _this_ : he had planned for this mission contingency, and he warned them. He told them he wouldn’t dance, and now the two of them are going without him. It’s not that Illya cannot do it if need be – it’s just physical exercise, after all, speed and coordination – but he would rather not. Dancing feels too much like exposure, and it is not a feeling that Illya enjoys.

Looking away from Solo’s crossed ankles and back at the slightly crinkled pages of the brief, Illya momentarily ponders whether he could do it now. Right now rather than at the dance club full of foreigners and young, gregarious locals who like the foreign vinyl and the foreign fashions. Hopefully some of those will be talkative enough later.

Perhaps he could dance right now, were Gaby to put down her wig and turn to him like she had done that night in Italy. Does he want to wrestle? He sighs and makes notes on the margins profiling the target, even as his mind keeps wondering about the possibility of moving with anything but blunt force and scalpel-like precision, of rolling, flowing and improvising. 

Perhaps if they were alone, it would be safe enough. 

The thoughts are unbidden, unexpected, and they scatter when Solo slaps him on the shoulder with a smooth "Get ready, Peril," on the way to his room. His shirt is practically transparent with sweat again.

Illya might have stiffened and bristled, but it is simply too hot and there is work to be done. He rises from the sofa and crosses the room to pick up the bag of pre-packed gear from the foot of Gaby’s bed and pretends that he doesn’t notice her watching him in the mirror, painted lips in a careful smile and painted fingernails tapping a rhythm on a lock-pick kit masquerading as a purse.

 

**JAPAN**

It should not surprise him that Gaby approaches the idea like this, displaying both her typically German meticulousness and a certain exaggerated lightness that seems to cling to modern girls as surely as fashionable garments. The result is a mix of confidence and kindness guaranteed to blow through any of Illya’s defenses surer than Molotov cocktail. 

The result is him in Tokyo, feeling too large for the tiny apartment they are in (which he, objectively, is), feeling too large for his own skin, feeling blissfully happy.

After all the explanations and instructions, a detailed mission plan that is so characteristic of Gaby’s manner – any handler would envy her, as they should – after everything, Illya feels ready. Anticipation is rising within him like a tidal wave. She stomps about their single room cheerfully, naming every toy and item she unearths from the secret stashes in the hidden closet and the tiny bedside table, and while she insists they don’t have to try it all at once, Illya is feeling daring and adventurous. They have talked about it long enough. He feels like a naval cadet ready to face the sea.

He takes his clothes off without making much of a show out of it, but he can tell that Gaby appreciates it nonetheless.

Illya feels safe and comfortable, and he takes a moment to wonder when exactly that has happened. The honest intimacy between them, the playfulness that can only come from trust: they are settled in his bones, justified. Gaby’s careful merry smile eggs him on and Illya breathes out, resigning himself to the onslaught of unfamiliar pleasure when she fastens a pair of handcuffs around his wrists, hooking him to the metal bar of the headboard. Gaby climbs onto the bed and straddles him. Her rough denim overalls drag across Illya’s heated skin and send a powerful sensation through him. He can almost hear the blood rush under his own skin.

Gaby shows him the blindfold, touches it to his involuntarily blushing face and his twitching fingers. She drags the fabric across this throat and he gulps. She drags it over his bare chest and he shivers. Gaby’s grin is very wide, all sharp white teeth and unabashed glee. If this is the last thing he ever sees – 

She blindfolds him and his body feels tight all over. If her face is the last thing he ever sees, then surely it more than Illya deserves. He almost wishes he could die like this, joyful. He’s ready to beg for the sweet agony and the delicious humiliation, but she is kind and sure and she doesn’t make him beg. She is supremely attentive. 

Gaby gives him as much stimulation as he asks for. She is formidable with her fingers and her whip, with the heels digging into Illya’s softer spots and the sharp slaps on Illya’s sweat-slick skin. She controls his breathing when Illya no longer can, she makes his body tense and relax with the kind of assurance and vibrant energy he has learned to appreciate from her and her alone. When she allows him to come, it’s a new kind of joy that Illya wants to own and make a part of himself. 

He will ask her to teach him how. Illya, too, can be meticulous and diligent. He must show Gaby that he can be very, very good.

 

**BRAZIL**

The night has settled, warm and dense, like a blanket woven out of summer. Its weight is heavy on Illya’s bare shoulders, on his nape and on his exposed back. The night weighs him down, tangles, entraps, until he is unable to extricate himself. The night makes him feel safe.

He floats in the night, calm and anchored by the proximity of Gaby’s calf, which is cool and firm and resting across his thigh. Illya is sitting on the floor, tailor-fashion, and his feet are lightly bound. His hands are lightly bound behind his back as well. He has been secured, rendered safe; most deliciously, the restraints make _him_ feel safe and secure.

Heat spreads through him in a rush, vertiginously sweet.

The night is dark but Illya’s darkness is different, better: it is made of smooth silk fabric and leaves nothing to chance. He is docile in this darkness, waiting like a hooded hawk, and the knowledge that Gaby has carefully tied the blindfold with her own hands is inexplicably at the heart of it all. There’d be none of this thorough relaxation otherwise.

Illya has learned. Illya understands.

The blissful relaxation has been brought by Gaby’s sure fingers, by Gaby’s steady grip, by the ruthless press of her palms against Illya’s bruised shoulders, by the flutter of her fingertips against the aching graze on his jaw. As usual, the tension bled away when she made him kneel and cautiously grasped his throat with her calloused fingers in a parody of a collar. The tension was drained from Illya’s body through careful, practiced slaps and blows that always land just right, just where it hurts the most, and force everything that is hiding under Illya’s skin – everything that is furious and ugly and cowardly lurking inside his flesh after yet another horrible mission – to shrivel and die, leaving nothing but peace and emptiness.

Illya enjoys this emptiness, this absence of thought and brief absolution. It grows within him, stretching him from the inside, while the heavy warmth of the night and the pitiless darkness press at him from the outside, and he is nothing but someone at Gaby’s feet. Or someone by Gaby’s side. Or someone whose hair Gaby enjoys pulling, playing with the short strands and petting him, murmuring something soft and inconsequential. 

Gaby speaks slowly, distinctly, but sometimes, Illya still has trouble understanding her when they are like this. Before and after, when they go over everything, when they dissect every detail with all the seriousness they would give a mission brief or an after-action report – then, Illya is all ears, perfectly focused and understanding everything. But when he is like this, his comprehension is frequently reduced to the cadence of Gaby’s voice.

She knows. She reads him like a book, alternating sternness and gentleness, giving him what he has discovered he needs in perfect order, in perfect dosage. Their time together is healing, a balm for the soul. If anything, it is like a spiritual dance.

It’s like a feast in time of plague, sating Illya’s most primal, most human hunger. It fills a void within him that Illya had been aware of, but did not know could be filled.

Turns out it can be, on nights like this, when Gaby is slouched against the sofa beside him, one leg thrown over Illya’s lap and the other stretched in front of her, a bowl of fruit in her hands. She holds Illya by the neck with sticky fingers, tickles the underside of his jaw and thumbs his eager mouth open, sliding moist, dripping pieces of peeled fruit past his lips.

He eats his fill because he can. It’s safe.

 

**U.S.A.**

Time is slow again, but viscous, unpleasant, with none of the dark lassitude that has been carrying Illya for the past months. It’s like a new, reeking kind of fog is gathering at the edges of his consciousness, ready to invade the centre of calm that has been carved into Illya’s heart. Something about this assignment on Solo’s home turf is leaving Illya off-kilter. He feels like he is reaching even when his hands are on the driver’s wheel, looking even when his eyes are following a target – and Gaby makes him feel like she has caught his hand or looked back even when she is miles away, on the phone before catching her flight from London.

He isn’t sure if she is the best partner or the best handler he has ever had. The proximity is like a power source. He is probably her husband even though she is definitely not his wife.

They dance their familiar dance without music, stumbling and tripping to the vicious rhythm of skin slapping against skin and bone hitting bone. Gaby looks beautiful when she is disheveled, eyes red-rimmed from putting their gear to rights a little too long.

Illya wishes she were a little more naked. He wishes she had a little more of that compact strength on display, but he has the pleasure of seeing Gaby’s wiry tanned forearms when she wrestles him down on the vibrantly colored synthetic carpet. Its vaguely repellent chemical smell assaults his nostrils while Illya runs his hands over Gaby’s denim-covered legs. His palms feel too large on the tight globes of her ass.

It’s a little like vertigo, a little like falling, but Illya is already down. He is sprawled under his chop-shop girl in a seedy American motel room. His blood runs sluggish and cold because suspicion is everywhere, and so is hatred: Illya has been feeling like a sitting duck ever since they started the wild goose chase across the Southern states. 

The stretched out highways and the roadkill whisper: witch hunt. The smell of pancakes and meat makes Illya nauseous, the smell of gunpowder and gun oil also, and all these smells are everywhere, the people’s eyes cold and their smiles wide. At night, Illya dreams that he’s burning, and the bed is hard against his shoulder blades, like a stake. 

Even the Cowboy’s lips twist a little differently around Illya’s name, or rather, fake name. Solo hasn’t used anything else for a while. He doesn’t even call Illya _Peril_ anymore.

Gaby has him pinned. Illya feels a little like retching, maybe from the smell of the carpet, dirt and chemicals, maybe from hunger, maybe from fear. Maybe from fatigue. But all of those sensations subside when Gaby wraps her hands around his throat again, keeping him down until the world goes dim, dark, quiet. No more whispers. No more burning. No more smells.

Her breaths are even and her weight on top of Illya is a blessing as she puts him to rights again.


	11. The Crucial Affairs (Character study, Illya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya Kuryakin needs to keep his reactions at bay. And then he no longer has the same reactions. The results are inconclusive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In all human affairs one notices, if one examines them closely, that it is impossible to remove one inconvenience without another emerging." - Niccolò Machiavelli

**10 a.m. in Ljubljana**

Ten a.m., cloudy with a chance of rain, Yugoslavia, the suburbs of Ljubljana. 

Illya is alone at the safe-house. It’s not downtime, not a respite: it’s limbo. He takes ragged, shuddering breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Alone.

All that he can hear is silence. Gaby and Solo are still out, performing the extraction.

This feeling right here, where the heart is, it’s suspense and devastation. It’s the merciless moment between two heartbeats, between the unchangeable and the inevitable. It’s the queer time between pulling the trigger and watching a body crumple in the sights of the rifle.

Illya’s knuckles are already bruised and bleeding, his joints are already sore. 

He has already killed a man this morning; he didn’t want to.

He rocks a little, back and forth, hums to himself with his eyes closed. Behind his eyelids, it’s cloudy with a chance of bloody haze, dreadful with a chance of starlight. Some strange thought dances on the edge of his consciousness. It’s just an episode, he can soldier through this. 

He must show that he can be very good.

The room stays intact. Illya has already killed a man this morning, and he doesn’t know what he will have to do afterwards. Perhaps he will have to clean up bodies after Solo, perhaps he will have to patch up his partners. Perhaps he will have to write up a report, or a notification for the local agencies. After all, they are trying to figure out who abuses the rapid inflation for their own murky political goals, and in what way, exactly. Illya may have to contact someone on behalf of UNCLE, but he won’t be able to do that under the onslaught of rage, shivering from adrenaline and revulsion. His body is overheated, oversensitive, but he wills it to be still. It needs to be still now in order to move perfectly afterwards, so that Illya can act without hesitation. He won’t be able to think clearly if he allows his body to fall apart.

The silence is deafening, agonizing. He must fill it so that he is not alone, and then it will all be good, and the next heartbeat will come.

So Illya rises, keeping his eyes closed, and crosses the small room in two strides. He cannot tell if his gait is shaky or steady; he moves with purpose and, sooner or later, he will reach his goal. There it is: his fingers run over the polished wood and the tight strings, feel the cool metal. He picks up the guitar from where it’s lying on the old chest of drawers and holds it a little too tight, the way he likes Gaby to hold his own wrists.

Illya sits down heavily, right on the dusty floor, and begins to play, shattering the silence. The chords are trembling, uneven. Somewhere between plaintive and violent. At first, Illya plays with jagged, nervous inaccuracy, but then he realizes that the frown between his eyebrows is smoothing out, and so is the melody. _Dve gitari, zazvenev, zhalobno zanyli…_

The music gets under his skin, fills his ears, forces itself through the tiny gap between his eyelids, crawls inside his mouth and fills him to the brim. Illya is not panting anymore, not panicking, not doing anything he refused to acknowledge he was doing mere moments ago. He’s just playing.

He lets all the tension and exhaustion out, allows it to tumble past his lips with the words of the song. _S detstva pamyatniy napev –_

It’s an old remedy, something that would get out the most horrible, the most lingering ache. Illya has been told that he has a good voice. He uses it to obliterate the silence, to make the savage, roaring darkness as calm as a kitten.

_Stariy drug moy – ty li?_

He sings to himself, certain that the next heartbeat will come, that Gaby and Solo will return, that he will inevitably end up the one who has to write up the reports and act as a liaison with the locals and the KGB. 

That he will inevitably have to kill someone again, today or tomorrow or next month, even if he doesn’t want to.

He is certain that it will never stop being devastating. If it does, it will mean that Illya himself has died. And it won’t matter if his heart is still beating then.

_Eh, raz, eshche raz, eshche mnogo, mnogo raz!_

But right now, he is fine. His mouth is twisted into something between a grin and a snarl, and he starts again, just because. Why not?

This time, he sings with his eyes open.

He doesn’t stop when he sees Gaby and Solo come in.

 

**10 p.m. in Zürich**

Ten p.m., clear skies, two degrees Celsius below zero. Zürich, Switzerland.

The evening is crisp and blue at the edges. A fine layer of snow glimmers on the pristine streets like diamond dust. In the dark, the sharp and jagged lines of Aussersihl blend and blur in a sweeter architectural melody, and a queer tiredness seeps into Illya’s very bones, exhaustion tinged with contentment and anticipation.

The skies are clear. The coast is clear. And everything, everything is blissfully clear. 

Quiet.

Illya is walking back towards the safe-house, mindful of the estimated time of arrival. The barest hint of frost bites at his skin lightly, and he feels his face bloom with pink. He is certain his cheeks will be bright red by the time he is back indoors, where Gaby and Solo are already waiting. The briefcase, heavy with the bonds almost consensually obtained from the private deposit box of a Stadtrat member, thuds against Illya’s calf at odd intervals. The warm, rough wool of his trousers brushes against his skin and every time the sensation sends tingles all over, bizarrely overwhelming.

A long blue coat and a bag full of presents: here he comes, red-cheeked like Grandfather Frost.

Today has been a good day, and there are two whole hours left. Illya’s heart is a metronome, steady, and his blood sings. 

Minimum casualties. Minimum heartbreak. 

Target: retrieved. Mission: completed. Everything went according to plan for once, which means that if Illya is lucky – if Solo is not a complete bastard – then most of the paperwork will be completed before Illya gets back. 

The city is discreetly festive: having sighed its prayers and sung its Christmas songs already, it is prepared to welcome the new year. Illya hums to himself, enjoying the crack of thin ice underfoot and the bracing cold. The New Year, that is the proper occassion for celebration. _V lesu rodilasj yelochka..._

There are fir trees aplenty here. And criminals. And dastardly schemes. And opportunities for successful infiltration and elimination.

Illya has been very good: this morning, he monitored the building and secured the exits, and everything went down smoothly in Industriequartier. This afternoon, he watched a man walk into a bank through the scope of a sniper rifle. This afternoon, he kept watch in Wiedikon as Solo – posing as _Herr Matthews, ein Amerikaner_ – lied and bullied his way through to the target, totally in character. 

Today, they worked like a well-oiled machine, and everything felt justified. Every application of brute force, every manipulative method.

The pavement is slippery but Illya’s gait is true, his step firm. Today, everything is in order.

Illya feels full to the brim with something; he barely restrains himself from humming, for it simply will not do for him to reveal himself. Inside, however, his mind is loud and bright, in sharp contrast to the silence of the prim streets of Zürich. He wishes to sing with childlike innocence that he has long forgotten how to feel.

_Zimoy i letom stroynaya, zelenaya byla..._

He is fast approaching the location. There is no time to ponder his state properly. He wonders what this strange satisfaction means: whether the sharp edges of his conscience are finally blunted, whether Gaby’s keen smiles and vicious punches have finally dulled the ache he was determined to feel forever, whether Solo’s smug smirk and oil-slick lies have wormed their way inside of Illya and unlocked something dreadful and callous, something that could live and breathe and be happy as the days went by, as wars raged and governments toppled.

The year has passed in the blink of an eye, and every day brought terror and tremors, and yet today, Illya finds himself oddly calm and still. Like the hand of a clock, frozen just shy of midnight.

One day followed the other, and seasons changed. Federal People’s Republic of Yugoslavia became Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. Gaby took Illya apart, and he loved her, and fell out of love. People fell as Illya shot, stabbed, pressed buttons on any number of devices. Being aware of Solo’s body next to him no longer triggered suspicion, or panic, or revulsion. Illya relied on him.

He may never confide in Solo, the way he never confided in Gaby even when he viscerally needed her to make him whole, by force if necessary; there may never be confidence but there is trust.

A cold kind of trust, the one that primes for the worst which is yet to come and evens out the odd, unpleasant moments. Their relationship is well below zero, and to Illya, it feels just right. Liberating.

Illya catches a glimpse of himself in a frozen puddle under the lamplight and barely recognises himself. There is not a sliver of repressed rage in his posture, only confidence and purpose. He is not sure if he likes himself just then. If he should be terrified. 

If the fact that pain and regret no longer linger around him like a halo mean that he has finally lost some precious, human part of himself.

But, walking up the stairs, he cannot muster regret. The raw part of him, forever bared to the world as he struggled with hurting and being hurt, has apparently scabbed over. Dried. And withered. 

And, side-by-side with his partners, Illya has morphed into something else. 

Fit for hell, and unbothered by it.

He knocks on the door – even, heavy thuds – just like the beating of his heart – and waits for the door to open.

He is smiling, and he does not care what this means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apollon Grigoryev - Russian poet, literary and theatrical critic who wrote [Two Guitars](http://www.talesfromthekeyboard.com/songs-of-exiles/two-guitars) for Ivan Vasiliev's music.
> 
> В лесу родилась ёлочка (A fir tree was born in the forest) - a popular winter children's song for New Year celebrations.


	12. The Congruous Affairs (Romance, OT3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Napoleon is wearing Gaby's glasses in the evening and Illya's shirt in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought to, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

**Evening**

The mission has been grueling but there is nothing but the flight back to base left. Illya keeps an eye on Solo, seated separately; the man is at ease despite the fact that his disguise is at odds with his usual presentation – only the shiny, rakish lock falling over Solo’s forehead is familiar. Solo’s clothes are soft and almost shabby, welcoming in a way the man never is, and the art history professor he pretends to be is soft-spoken and charming in a way that is supposed to seem genuine to their civilian companion, a journalist from Santiago. 

The woman’s pursuit of truth has made her a perfect if unwitting asset to UNCLE, but she cannot see through the show that Solo has been putting on for her. Nothing about this Solo is real: his own interest for art boils down to money, his actual tastes are tawdry, and the glasses he is wearing belong to Gaby. But it is safer to play pretend and it works, beautifully.

Illya closes his eyes and thinks about burning off the excess energy, getting out of the plane seat where he has folded himself, all prim and proper, to remain coiled tight like a spring throughout the flight. He thinks about going for a run, blood pumping in his veins and sweat breaking out on his skin, the lick of the wind, blissfully cool. He thinks about going to bed and being fast asleep.

Illya keeps his eyes closed but he can see very clearly what is going on. A few rows over, Solo smokes and keeps up a steady chatter with the Chilean journalist seated next to him.

It has been a long day.

The late afternoon bleeds into the evening, ever so slow because they keep changing time zones. Illya thinks how easily Solo slips in and out character, his temperament magically running hot and cold depending on the persona required for the mission. Solo can be whatever he wants, changing character the way he changes clothes, donning charm the way one dons a hat, putting on intelligence the way one puts on a pair of glasses. There is a queer burn in the pit of Illya’s stomach. 

He admires the skill the other man possesses. There is a great deal to be admired.

Through his eyelashes, Illya watches Solo watch the journalist. The smile that stretches Solo’s slightly puffy lips is particularly attractive, and Illya can tell that the woman enjoys the obscenely healthy blush that blooms high on Solo’s chiseled cheekbones. He is making her believe him, and in that brief moment, suspended 35,000 feet up in the air, Illya is willing to believe everything, too.

It is a testament to the trust they have built between them, several bullet wounds and data leaks down the road, that Illya is confident that Solo would not try to sell him a lie unless he absolutely had to. In their line of work, that is good enough.

Meanwhile, Illya pretends to doze and enjoys the spectacle of Solo at work, perfectly poised and flaunting the horn-rimmed glasses he had borrowed from Gaby earlier.

The flight back to Paris is long and Solo is quite a sight for sore eyes.

 

**Morning**

It’s a brand new day, and Illya watches the rising sun paint the morning skies crimson. 

In the evening, he went out for a run, working out the kinks in his body and the lingering tension, both from their interminable previous mission and the long flight. And afterwards, he came back to Gaby’s apartment, drank the glass of water she had left him on the bedside table, took off his clothes and went to bed.

Illya did not even wake up properly when the bed dipped with the added weight, when he felt the familiar smell of Gaby’s hair and a tickling sensation of a strand dragging across his throat. He did not really wake up when he felt a broad bare back pressing against his own, sweat-slick and hot. Illya slept right through Solo’s and Gaby’s fumbling, dreamt about seagull screams and the smell of sea salt.

Now, sitting on the windowsill with a mug of steaming, oversteeped tea, Illya realizes he slept through the sounds and smells of sex, muffled screams and slick traces of spent pleasure on the other side of the bed.

He watches the street, not quite watches the car parked further away where the discreet protection detail Waverly has sent to keep eyes on Gaby is not quite watching him through the window, and takes a scalding sip of tangy tea.

Behind him, there’s some bustling and quiet footfalls, and Illya turns around to see Solo shuffle out of the bedroom. Illya notes that his eyes are still soft with sleep and his feet are bare, and that there’s something dangling from his fingers – Gaby’s dainty pumps, ridiculous in Solo’s large hand – and that his shirt is not stretched tight across his shoulders, like it usually is. It hangs a little loosely on Solo’s frame, a little rumpled and starkly white against the tanned skin of Solo’s neck. 

Illya realizes that it is his own shirt from yesterday, the one he had left on Gaby’s bedroom floor, and takes another slow sip of his tea as Solo pads over to the bathroom. On the way, he drops Gaby’s shoes on the shiny coffee table and scoops up his own clothes from where they are hanging across the back of the sofa – and Illya notes that Solo must still be half-asleep because he makes no comment about the creases his trousers and jacket are sporting.

The bathroom door closes behind Solo with a click and Illya turns back to the window. He feels well-rested and keen all of a sudden, and wonders if he can fetch some tea for the agent keeping vigil in front of Gaby’s apartment windows without drawing undue attention to either of them. That would be the right thing to do.

After all, out of all of them the poor fellow had the least rest last night.

Having finished his own tea, Illya goes to the kitchen to fill a thermos. Then he steps around Gaby who is drinking milk straight out of the glass bottle in front of an open fridge, steps over his own balled up shirt left on the floor this side of the bathroom door, and steps outside the little bubble of mock safety that is Gaby’s apartment.

When Illya gets back, Solo is in the kitchen, fully dressed and serving hot breakfast for three while Gaby talks to Waverly on the phone.


End file.
